Tsubasa means
by cedricsowner
Summary: My take on what a fifth season might have been like. Sequel to Isamu means. Case fics, unconventional shipping. WARNING: Mind the rating. FINAL CHAPTER UP NOW!
1. writing on the wall

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

**_A/N: Veniceit provided the brilliant name and the idea that there's something Chance can't do - check out her wonderful one-shot "ice meets metal"!_**

**_~ writing on the wall ~ _**

The boy hit the ground hard and skidded across the ice like a turtle on its back.

"Nice hip check", Guerrero commented. "Elegant."

"Philippa said they used to spend the winters in rural Russia. Ash was out on the frozen lakes with the village youth every free minute. Looks like they taught him well." Joubert's eyes were positively gleaming as he watched Ash knock down yet another player with his shoulder.

"A bunch of kids going at each other with no one to enforce any rules, great learning experience, yeah", Chance grumbled. "Do you know he's carrying a scar from that time? A cut along his elbow."

"Once he's built up some bulk he'll make a good enforcer." Guerrero was watching Ash just as intensely as Joubert.

"Inbuilt need to protect his teammates, likes the adrenalin, yeah, that fits…", Winston agreed.

"He'll miss school days, being laid up after getting injured in this so-called sport. Nothing but an organized brawl."

Guerrero, Joubert and Winston exchanged amused glances, stifling the urge to chuckle at Chance's obvious displeasure.

"Dude's definitely gifted – fast, good hands, natural balance…"

"Amazing, considering his father can't skate a lick…" Joubert laughed out loud at an old memory, an incident during a job, almost twenty years ago. Guerrero knew what he was referring to and couldn't help but laugh, too. Winston had his own experiences with Chance's attempts at skating and had to pretend he was sneezing so it wasn't too obvious that he was enjoying himself either.

"That goddamn fishing hole appeared out of nowhere", Chance snarled at him nevertheless. "Nobody could have stopped in time, not even what's his name Wayne Radetzky or whatever…"

"Does Ash know you can't skate?", Winston asked, trying to put oil on troubled waters a little.

Joubert grinned. "I might have dropped a hint or two…."

If looks could kill, Chance's dark stare would have sent him straight to a one-on-one meeting with his maker.

"What? He's fourteen now, that's an age in which a young man tries to distinguish himself from his father. It's what you always wanted, isn't it?"

Chance fought the violent urge to wipe the smirk off the Old Man's face and was just on the verge of losing it when Winston put a calming hand on his shoulder. "It's the name, isn't it?", he asked softly.

"Why not Penguins? Snowmen? Or Huskies? It's not even ice-hockey related!", Chance exploded.

Winston patted his back sympathetically. Just then the shrill blow of a whistle signaled that tryout practice was over. All boys gathered around the coach.

Ash, however, didn't stay with the others for long. The coach said something to him, the boy raised his arms in jubilation and seconds later he came skating towards them, howling with triumph. "Dad, dad, I'm an Assassin now!"

Behind him, one of the co-trainers came up with an appreciative smile on his face. "Your signature on this declaration of consent and your son will be a proud member of the San Francisco Assassins." He handed Chance a clipboard and a pen. "Your boy's got a lot of potential. He's definitely got that killer instinct we're looking for."

Chance took a deep breath and rested his eyes on his son.

_I'm an Assassin now, Dad._

Great. Just Great.

Ash was practically glowing with pride and obviously riding on an adrenalin high. Chance stifled a sigh. There was no way he could crash this moment.

"Congratulations. Very impressive." With a swift stroke he signed the declaration. Winston patted his back again.

"Have you seen me do that low hip check?" Totally excited, Ash skated closer to the board. "My cell is in the locker, can I have yours?", he asked his father.

"Philippa's number is on speed dial." Chance handed him his phone.

Ash hesitated. "Um… I wanted to call Cindy… I'm going to call mom right afterwards!"

"Cindy?" Chance frowned. "The redhead with the glasses?"

"No, that's Mandy. You haven't met Cindy yet." Ash took the phone and skated a bit away from them.

Frowning, but also unable to completely suppress the smile that was forcing its way onto his lips, he watched his son describe the tryouts in grand gestures to the yet unknown young lady. He had acquired quite a taste for them lately. Chance was starting to lose track.

Guerrero's cell phone signaled.

"Yeah, he's standing right next to me. Ash's got his phone."

Guerrero handed his cell to Chance. "Ilsa."

"Is there some kind of code regarding pizza that you haven't told me about?"

Chance froze. "Pizza?"

"Three calls came in through the office line in the past fifteen minutes. The first time somebody said he wanted two large, thin crust pepperoni pizzas, a large Chicago style pizza with mushrooms, olives and extra cheese and two diet cokes. I told him he had the wrong number. Five minutes later he called again, said he needed the express delivery. I pointed out again that in that case he needed to call a pizza parlor. Two minutes ago the third call came in. A different voice than before told me he was insisting on the order."

"Next time he calls, you tell him mushrooms aren't available, he can have bacon."

"Is there any point in me asking what all of this is about?", Ilsa sighed.

"There's trouble ahead." Chance gestured Ash to get on with his telephone call and change in the locker.

"Ah, _that_ of course narrows it down." In the background Chance could hear the office phone ring again. Ilsa cut the connection.

"Let's go. We've got a pizza order", he told the others.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

They dropped Ash off at Philippa's and the Old Man at a run-down looking garage in the Castro. When they got to the office they were met by the sight of several cardboard boxes in different sizes, piled up in the lobby.

"I couldn't decipher the pizza stuff either, sorry Ilsa had to disturb. How did it go?" Ames came walking out of the guestroom, carrying a large holdall, bulging with clothes. "Chance?"

Chance was apparently caught up in staring at the boxes.

_Ames was moving out. _

"Chance! How did Ash's tryout go? Are they taking him?" She dropped the heavy holdall right at his feet.

"I don't think all of this will fit into your car", Chance replied absent-mindedly, his eyes still trained on her belongings.

"Oh, Ken's got a van."

_"Ken?"_ Now Chance's eyes were trained on her.

"Met him when I went looking for a new place. We both wanted the same apartment. Things could have gotten ugly, but over a cup of coffee we decided having to pay only half of the rent wouldn't be a bad thing either… We're sharing now." Ames picked up one of the boxes and carried it over to the elevator.

"Have you had him checked by Guerrero?"

"Seriously, Chance. He's a nice guy."

"…said the woman whose husband wanted to kidnap her. I'm on it, Chance." Guerrero snapped open his smartphone. "What's Ken's last name?"

"Ask him yourself. He'll pick me up in a couple of minutes."

"Well, you'll have to postpone that, a new job's just come in." Chance took the box from her and sat it back on the floor. "Conference room, now."

"What, the pizza stuff? Is it that urgent?"

Chance didn't answer, he just turned and walked off. On his way to the conference room he picked up a newspaper. The front page was plastered with news about a scandal in Washington. A bigwig in the Department of Health, renowned scientist, honored for many ground breaking discoveries in the field of virology, was stumbling over an expense account affair. Apparently he had embezzled hundreds of thousands of dollars and spent quite a bit of it on prostitutes and gambling. At least that's what a couple of newly discovered documents suggested… This would definitely cost him his pension and quite a bit of his reputation.

"Was that you?", Chance asked Guerrero.

Guerrero replied with one of his wolfish grins.

The newspaper wasn't only full with political stuff about the fallen from grace scientist, though. The second and third page were dominated by details regarding a bloody gang war that was currently raging in the Bay Area. SFPD was calling in special forces to get a hold of these extremely violent outbreaks, with little luck so far. The conflict was threatening the coming tourist season. Hotel accommodation booking was already slightly declining.

"Five people died in this car alone?" With growing terror Ilsa read the article that accompanied the gruesome picture of a burnt out vehicle by the roadside.

"Three victims so far were most likely innocent bystanders who just happened to be at the wrong place in the wrong time?" She put the newspaper down as Ames entered the conference room after finishing her short telephone conversation with her roommate.

"Ken totally understands that my job comes first", Ames said and slumped into one of the chairs, stretching out her long legs. Although it was rather cold today she was wearing a pretty short skirt.

"What kind of monsters carry a war into streets where innocent citizens are at risk? It's worse enough that they're killing each other." Memories of Belfast flashed up in Ilsa's mind and she unconsciously massaged the scar on her shoulder.

Guerrero looked at Chance and shrugged his shoulders. _"You'll have to tell her…"_, said the gesture.

Chance nodded in resigned consent and decided to get done with it immediately. "Well, one of those monsters will be our future client…"

Ilsa's reaction was prompt and predictable: "NO WAY! Over my dead body we'll take on any of these people as a client!"

Guerrero tsked. "In this line of business we don't use that expression, boss."

Winston put a calming hand on Ilsa's. "This is about the Duquan Daniri case, isn't it?", he asked Chance.

Chance nodded and Winston sighed.

… … …

Meanwhile in Washington two prominent figures of the local drug trafficking scene were having a conversation not as private as they thought it was.

_"He's skinny. Looks like a Laotian Rock Rat. Glasses. Meet him on the street, you'd overlook him. But man, can I tell you, that guy is dangerous. I would never mess with him, never. Not for any money in the world." _

_"And he's responsible for the scandal regarding the scientist in the Health Department? Why did he do that?"_

_"No idea. Don't want to know. Trust me, it's better to give him a wide berth. And by "wide" I mean "ocean size"."_

Emma Barnes put down her headphones in surprise. This wire tap was a real eye-opener.

"Skinny guy brought down one of the admiralty's favorite scientists? You've got any idea whom they're talking about?", her colleague asked.

Emma did some quick thinking. She _could_ tell him that the two thugs they were wiretapping were sure as hell talking about Guerrero. But from a strategic point of view… this could very well become quite valuable information, if used in the right moment…

"No idea", she told her colleague.

… … …

"Did you double-check this?" Innokentij tapped at a certain paragraph on the sheet of paper in front of him.

"I know a lie when I hear it. That guy wasn't lying. Not after that kind of torture. Nothing's better than pain to wipe a man's brain clean from all deceit…" The interrogation specialist allowed himself a satisfied smile.

"So it's true", Innokentij nodded. "Christopher Chance has got a son. Get me a photo."

… … …

"We had a client named Duquan Daniri. Grown up on the corners, slinging, he worked himself through the ranks till he became a major player's second Lieutenant. Then he met a girl and… wanted out", Winston explained to Ilsa.

She understood the appeal the case must have had for Chance: A young man who wanted to change his ways. Worked on Chance like a charm, every bloody time.

"I guess you couldn't tear down San Francisco's complete drug scene to protect him from his former employer?", she mused.

"We negotiated. First we let them know what we were capable of and then we negotiated." Winston took a deep breath. He hadn't liked it either. "Some monsters are too big to take down, Ilsa."

"What was the price?", she asked, although she already knew the answer.

"Chance's special protective services, should the need ever arise."

Ilsa buried her face in her hands and rubbed it. "We've got to adjust the file. There's no way I can explain this to Connie or the other board members."

Grinning, Guerrero swirled around in his chair and activated the computer screen, opening a case file with a variety of faux names to choose from and a couple of different background stories, addressed to the Marshall Pucci board of directors.

"Don't tell me you've saved this as a template", Ilsa groaned. "I don't want to know. I really don't."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"I really don't know why I have to sit up here on this roof, freezing my ass off, when Guerrero is already inside the bar, having your back, and Winston with Ilsa on the lookout in the van. I mean, if I knew how to use a long distance rifle or anything… but like this it's pretty pointless, isn't it?"

"You're playing an important part in the plan, Ames", Chance replied quietly.

Guerrero, who was listening in to their conversation via earpiece, couldn't help but snort.

"Ken and I wanted to choose the wallpaper for the kitchen and the corridor this evening…"

"I'm sorry that our new job and my personal safety interfered with you interior designing plans…"

"That's not what I meant! It's just… I've got the feeling I'm of no use whatsoever up here – and why in the world do I have to wear these ridiculously uncomfortable shoes? These ugly flat military things that Guerrero handed me before we left?"

Chance threw Guerrero at the other end of the room a questioning look. He replied with a shrug of his shoulder – _Couldn't resist, dude…_

"All part of the plan, Ames." Chance stifled a chuckle.

Just then the atmosphere in the bar suddenly shifted, as if an icy-cold breath of wind had rolled through – Kareem Aquam, mighty leader of the Southside Gang, surrounded by an impressive display of his personal muscle, was making his entrance.

Even the most drunk civilians in the room now sensed that they better had their next beer in another bar and cleared out. What remained were Aquam and his people, both those he had planted in the bar prior to the meeting and his staff of bodyguards, and Chance and Guerrero. The barkeeper quickly disappeared, leaving his premises to the gangland boss and his visitors, silently praying he'd get recompensed for any damages that might ensue.

"So you've decided to call in the favor we owe you", Chance began without further ado, hoping Aquam would skip directly to the specifics of the job he wanted to hire them for and not go into detail of what kind of favor they had promised him in exchange for Duquan's safety.

"Yeah, the carte blanche."

Ah, damn it, of course he didn't skip that part.

"CARTE BLANCHE? DID HE JUST SAY CARTE BLANCHE?" Ilsa in the van.

_Told you to lock her up in the office_, the look on Guerrero's face said.

"Carte blanche with one exception", Chance reminded Kareem.

"No one deserves to die, I know."

"But that doesn't leave out all sorts of other stuff! Hijacking! Kidnapping! A bank robbery! What if he asks us to provide security for a drug transport?"

"We were very much aware of the possible consequences such a promise could have", Winston tried to calm Ilsa down.

"Let me guess, in the end you considered that a _tomorrow problem_."

What could Winston say? She was right on.

Luckily, Aquam chose this very moment to continue his reply to Chance's remark. "Don't worry, I'm not going to compromise your values." He reached into his jacket.

Both Guerrero and Chance tensed. So did Winston and Ilsa, all of her frustration wiped away by this reminder of just how much danger Chance was in at the moment. Ames on the roof couldn't see what was going on, but Ilsa's sudden silence told her volumes.

"This is my daughter." Aquam placed a photo of a teenage girl, about fourteen years, on the bar. It was the kind of portrait photo they make for yearbooks. Judging from the uniform she was wearing, she was going to one of the most expensive and demanding private schools in town.

"Her name is Shakeema."

She was pretty – long, curly hair, eyes that spoke of an alert mind and a friendly smile on her lips. Hard to believe she was this scarred thug's kid.

"Lost her mother to spiked drugs twelve years ago. Rat poison. Was meant for me. Keema is all I've got left."

"What's that in her hand?" Chance pointed at the photo.

"An ARML trophy. She collected the full ten points in the individual round." Kareem's eyes shone with pride.

"Math, huh? Clever girl…"

"Four weeks ago someone tried to kill her." All light in the gang boss' eyes went out. "An overdose of potassium in her smoothie. She had given it to her best friend, she drank it and died. Poisoning again, goddamn it."

"Strange coincidence indeed", Chance agreed. "Twelve years ago, did you get the person who spiked the drugs?"

"Wagner's people." Aquam didn't need to say anything else. This explained the sudden violent flaring up of the gang war.

"They claim they've got nothing to do with it, but this had Randy Wagner's handwriting all over it. I'm going to take care of this problem myself, though, don't worry. All I want you to do is make sure my little girl is safe till I'm done with them."

"He cannot seriously ask us to…" Ilsa from the van again.

"Agreed." Chance got up, shook Aquam's hand, took the photo and walked out, Guerrero in close pursuit.

When they got to the van, Ilsa was already waiting for them: "You can't be serious! I pride myself with having developed a significant level of tolerance regarding ethical standards in this "line of business" in the past two years, but this is just too much – three innocent bystanders so far! And there will be more! Not to mention all those thugs involved… We cannot just stand there and…"

"We're not "just standing there", Ilsa", Chance interrupted her sharply. "We're making sure Shakeema gets through this alive. That's all we can do." He didn't like this either.

"Why can't we find out who is after the girl so all this random killing stops?" She made it sound as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"And what if we find out? What if we can pinpoint it to a certain person? Shall we deliver him to Aquam?" Guerrero carefully unfolded a sandwich he had stashed in the van. "What do you think he's going to do with the perpetrator? Aside from that, the person who did this most likely acted on orders. So whom shall we take down? The one who ordered the hit, most likely Randy Wagner, or the executor? You realize, we take down Wagner, we open up a void in the power structure of the gangs around here… more fights will ensue." He took a hearty bite.

Ilsa just stared at him, open-mouthed. "But…"

"Hate to say it, but he's right." Winston shrugged his shoulders.

The door to the van was yanked open from the outside. All three men grabbed their guns, Ilsa threw herself to the floor and took cover.

"Thank you for telling me that I'm not needed on the roof anymore", Ames grumbled, climbing in, rubbing her shoulders from the cold. "So what do we do now?"

"Protect the girl", Chance said.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Guerrero hated this. He hated every part of it. This was meant for thugs who tried to mess with him, not for young girls who were good at math.

It made sense, yes. A windowless van would have been too obtrusive. But that didn't mean he had to like it in any way, shape or form. He pulled into the parking garage they had agreed upon as a meeting place.

Aquam's people had cleared the level of all civilians. Not many to park here anyway, this was a pretty seedy part of the city. Everybody knew the guards on duty were bribed and the cameras not working.

A couple of cars just like the one Guerrero was coming in, same model, same color, were already waiting. Aquam was taking no chances.

When Guerrero got out of his car, Aquam was standing a little apart from his muscle, his daughter by his side. He had a hand on her shoulder. As Guerrero approached the two, the big man crouched down so he was at eye level with his kid. "We talked about this", he said, gently stroking her face. "There's no need to be afraid. These people are the best. They'll take good care of you and this is just for your protection."

Shakeema nodded. The way she stood there, self-controlled, calm, accepting the things to come… suddenly Guerrero could see the similarities between Aquam and his daughter. Sure, ruthlessness, the will to use uninhibited violence when necessary and pretty much the total absence of anything resembling a conscience had brought him to the top of San Francisco's underworld, but there was more to it: Determination. Self-discipline. The willingness to work harder than everyone else. Shakeema had inherited that.

When her father pulled the black hood over her head she didn't even flinch. Cautiously he lifted her up and carried her over to Guerrero's car. Guerrero had put a pillow and a blanket into the trunk, after spending half the afternoon with reinforcing the trunk lid.

Rear-end collisions, even the mild ones, were extremely dangerous for someone riding in the trunk. Trunks were part of a car's crush-collapsible zone, meant to give in to outside force. Without seatbelts, airbags, stable walls a person inside a trunk was at great risk during a crash. With his usual passengers Guerrero couldn't care less, but this was different.

Aquam lowered Shakeema onto the provided blanket as gently as possible. "The drive won't be long, will it?"

Guerrero didn't answer and Aquam didn't expect him to – the whole point of this dreadful exercise was to prevent the daughter from figuring out where Chance's lair was. The team had discussed this matter long and intensely. On the one hand no place was safer than the warehouse, on the other hand it was not wise to let Kareem Aquam know where the team had set up camp. In the end the concerns for the girl's safety had outweighed the concerns for their own.

… … …

"Why are you canvassing the windows?", Ash asked Ames, frowning.

"A new client is coming in. She's the daughter of a gangster boss and we don't want her to know where the office is. Too dangerous for Chance, you, all of us… and her… if anyone finds out she knows and tortures her… it's better this way." With the elegance of the practiced thief Ames descended the ladder and moved on to the next window.

"While she's here, make yourself invisible", Winston told Ash.

"It's not my fault mom's away for a job and I have to stay with Dad", Ash snapped back.

Winston rolled his eyes. Ash was sounding more and more like a real teenager lately. Sullen and objecting as a matter of principle. "I know, but that doesn't change the fact that you'll have to stay upstairs for a while. Use your father's bathroom, stay in your room as much as possible. With all the internet and TV shit Guerrero has set up you shouldn't be in danger of dying of boredom soon. We'll provide you with enough food so you won't starve to death either."

"Great, being imprisoned in my own home!"

Winston thought of Guerrero's secret prison cell downstairs and shook his head. The boy had no idea what he was talking about.

… … …

Guerrero left the parking garage in a convoy with the other cars before they spread out in different directions. Unless whoever was after Shakeema had a small army of drivers at hand he'd have to pick one of the cars to follow and leave the others alone. Statistically, his chances of following the wrong car were good. Nevertheless Guerrero did more than one extra turn to make sure nobody was in pursuit.

Things looked good.

When he pulled up in the warehouse's loading bay, Chance was already waiting. "The scanner in the trunk indicated no secret tracker or other bug on her", Guerrero told him. "Kareem was being truthful."

Careful not to scare Shakeema, Chance opened the trunk.

The girl hadn't touched her hood. She was lying curled up in her blanket, head on the pillow. "Are we there?", she asked, voice muffled from the cloth.

"I'm Christopher Chance, the man your father hired to protect you. I'm going to lift you up now. Once we're in my office, I'll remove the hood, okay?"

"S'okay."

Shakeema was light as a feather. She kept very still in Chance's arms, apparently willing to accept whatever they were planning to do with her. But even through the thick denim of her jacket he could feel her heart beat wildly.

Upstairs she tried some of the food Ilsa had ordered for her, most likely more out of politeness than out of any kind of appetite, then retired to the guestroom Ames had cleared only a couple of hours earlier.

Guerrero and Chance sat down to go over the plan for the coming days once more. As Guerrero switched on the TV, news of more killings just came in. A gruesome shootout at a corner near an elementary school.

"This stinks", Guerrero told Chance.

"I know, but we owe Aquam and it's not the girl's fault her father is a bastard."

"Not Aquam's methods. The hit on the girl. There's something wrong about it."

Chance looked at his friend with knitted brows. "It doesn't make much sense, attacking Shakeema to hurt Aquam, does it? Everyone in his right mind, especially Wagner, would know he'd strike back with everything he's got. His daughter's death would not destabilize him, it would sent him on a retaliation campaign… Hitting him directly would make a lot more sense…"

"What if…?" Guerrero slowly began.

Chance nodded. He knew exactly what he was thinking and he had to agree: It _was _a possibility.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Shakeema frowned. "Seriously, you think this is about me? Someone wanted to kill me to kill _me_, not to hurt my dad?" She sat back in her chair in astonishment.

"I don't have any enemies. I'm not my dad, I don't believe in the philosophy of creating fear in others to keep myself safe. In fact, I don't need to keep myself safe. Not the way he does. I'm a teenager, I go to school, I hang out with friends, I go shopping... Despite who my dad is, I live a pretty normal life. Why should anyone be after me _because _of me?" She shook her head, dismissing the idea with a rather determined gesture.

"Have you argued with someone lately?" Chance had seen this kind of behavior before. Some clients simply refused to believe they were in danger... till a bullet so barely missed their head, it singed the fine hair on the back of their neck.

In his old job, Chance had loved these kind of people. Minimum of planning, no need to invest time into getting to know them and their routines better (= less lack of sleep afterwards) - easy money.

In his new job, these were the clients who made his life hardest. They called relatives from traceable cell phones. They opened doors to strangers who posed as delivery men. They reacted to the order to DUCK with the speed of a turtle under sedatives.

"It's a ridiculous idea. You obviously don't know much about the motivations to kill someone." Shakeema sounded like she knew all about it. Guerrero raised an amused eyebrow that she interpreted as a challenge to expand on the subject.

"It's either about money, fear, power or hurt feelings." She counted the different reasons one by one, using her fingers as visual support, so that Chance and Guerrero didn't miss a single point.

Well, she had definitely inherited her father's self-confidence.

"I don't owe anybody money and I didn't lend anybody money. I have never threatened anyone in my life except my friend Katie..." Here Shakeema hesitated, swallowing hard. Seeing her friend die on the floor of the biology room...of course it had left a mark and only the years to come would tell how deep. "I told her if she mentioned to anyone that I'm still sleeping with my ... with a stuffed animal..." Actually it was a Ms Piggy puppet, but this was something _she_ would kill for to keep quiet.

Chance was just about to take her hand and squeeze it when she apparently decided that this side of her was not for the men to see. With visible effort - she was still a child after all - she pulled herself together. "I do not exert power over anyone except it's a math competition", she kept on counting. "And I don't hurt any feelings except in a math competition. I'm the fastest mental mathematician on the west coast, period. You can't deal with it, eat a parabola."

Her emphasis on her mathematical abilities didn't escape Chance and Guerrero. She had quite an attitude. If she had rubbed somebody the wrong way...

"Tell us about the opponents you've beaten lately..." Chance asked her. A request that was answered with an impatient roll of the eyes.

"Do you really think one of my opponents in a math competition tried to poison me with potassium? Because I'm better at _algebra_?

Chance shrugged his shoulders. "Young people sometimes don't think their actions through..."

This time Guerrero rolled his eyes. _Look who's talking..._

The noise of something heavy and metallic crashing to the floor in the kitchen divided their attention momentarily. "Ouch! I didn't think it would be THAT hot!", Ames cursed.

Shakeema angrily pushed her chair back and got up. "You know who my father is. You know about the things he does. How can you seriously even consider me being the actual target? You're wasting your time and energy. Do your job and protect me. Leave the rest to dad." And thus she stomped off. Somehow the idea that Katie had had to die because of what she was instead of what her father was made everything even worse.

Half-way to the guestroom, almost through the door, however, Shakeema overheard Chance: "What if she did a Harry and stumbled upon something dangerous without noticing?"

Do a Harry? Interesting word choice. She hesitated, listened more intensely.

"She worked on mathematical codes in her last school project, didn't she?"

"Some mercury puzzle shit? Dude, didn't we have enough shocking revelations of military secrets lately?"

Shakeema pursed her lips in contempt. Another ridiculous idea.

"Do you still have that program that searches the web and cross-references codes to encrypted texts?"

"We can give it a try, bro, but that's a needle-in-the-haystack thing…" Silence followed in which they probably activated the program. Shaking her head, Shakeema proceeded to further approach the bedroom.

"Whoa."

_Whoa?_ Shakeema stopped again. What did they find? She had worked months on her school project, aiming at cracking a certain type of mathematical codes. It hadn't worked out to her complete satisfaction, the code breaker was only applicable to a small group of codes, mostly used by the Navy in the Sixties for operations in Southeast Asia. _But_ it had been enough to earn her a prize.

"Dude, that's seriously…"

"…cool." Chance finished his friend's sentence, unable to take his eyes off the screen. Jeez, generations of people had tried their luck with these messages and a fourteen year old girl... hopefully she'd never take over her father's business. In this case law enforcement would have quite a problem on its hands.

"Kareem Aquam's daughter developed a code breaker that decrypts the Zodiac's letters?" Guerrero still couldn't believe it. "Thought we had made it to the top of "unlikely shit that happen nevertheless"-list with the virus that killed my father."

"Let's walk this through…" Chance was excited. They were just about to solve one of the greatest mysteries in criminal history! "Some of the messages the Zodiac sent have never been decoded... And he repeatedly stated his encrypted texts would reveal his identity... so now, the Zodiac found out Shakeema developed something to break his code. Why the murder attempt? Because the code might lead back to him... because he wants to protect the mystique around his murders..."

"Maybe he's just pissed off because a fourteen year old figured it out." Guerrero carefully deleted all traces that they had used the cross-referencing program. The site it had accessed belonged to the FBI. "He must be in his sixties now. Let's ask Shakeema if she's met some old dude lately."

At this very moment a soft alert went off. Chance frowned. It was a different kind of alert than the usual ones – "intruders on the roof", "unauthorized use of elevator", "breach of front door", "attack on the computer system"…

"Somebody is using a non-registered cell phone in here", Guerrero explained. "I made a list of all cell phones that are in general use here, including the one that Ash uses and Ames fancy little toy. All others set off the alert system."

"Shakeema must have smuggled one in. You've got the jammer signal activated that disturbs the GPS signal, don't you?"

Guerrero gave him a "seriously, dude"-look. "Let's hear what she's got to say." He hit a button. A split second later Shakeema's voice could be heard through the computer's loudspeaker.

"Dad? I know who tried to kill me! My new math teacher, Mr. Kramer. You won't believe it, but…"


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"I still don't see why we can't simply call the police!" Ilsa insisted, practically yelling at Chance while he was already starting the van's engine. Guerrero hopped in, shotgun strapped to his back. Winston, already seated, was equally heavily armed.

"By the time we've explained all this to Peale, Aquam's_ and_ Wagner's people will have torn the Zodiac into little pieces", Chance yelled back over the roaring of the engine. Time was pressing, if they wanted to beat Aquam to the Zodiac they needed to leave NOW.

"And that would be a bad thing because...?"

Ilsa didn't get an answer. Chance put the van in reverse and raced off.

Winston and Guerrero, however, exchanged glances at Ilsa's question. She had a point.

... ... ...

The man who had called himself the Zodiac almost a lifetime ago, killer of at least seven people, resided in a suburb. Small white house, well-kept lawn, picket fence. No unnecessary flowers or decorative items. No pet. His neighbors would have described him as an unobtrusive elderly man, polite, rather introverted, but always friendly.

They found him on his couch, eating a microwave menu and watching TV. When they burst through the backdoor, he slowly put down his food, turned towards them and just stared, wordlessly.

They didn't waste time with introductions or explanations. In the five minutes before leaving, Guerrero had pulled "Mr. Kramer"'s file from the school records and found enough holes in his CV to support Shakeema's conclusion regarding his identity. Not to mention the purchase of potassium Guerrero had been able to trace back to him.

You don't kick in anybody's door, tie him up and throw him in the back of a van without at least a whiff of evidence. Mr. Kramer was stinking.

The plan was to transport him to the nearest police station that would withstand an onslaught from Aquam's and, a very real possibility, Wagner's people. Wagner was just as pissed off as Aquam. He had lost some good people. Competent employees were hard to find, damn it, and it wasn't that he could place an ad with LinkedIn, could he? Winston would handle the delivery, explain everything, Chance and Guerrero would stay out of sight.

The second they got into the car they heard the high-pitched screech of tires burning rubber on tarmac. Three black SUVs rounded the corner. Aquam's army had arrived.

With Chance at the wheel and the Zodiac tied up in the back under Guerrero's watchful eyes, they raced off. Guerrero had gagged their captive, too. No need for conversation with evil incarnate, especially not when people were closing in that wanted nothing more than punish him. As long as he lasted. Guerrero didn't need Chance to hear an elderly man's pleas for mercy. With a little luck they'd at least make it to the nearest police station. Unless…

More screeching tires. Wagner's people were coming from the opposite direction. Could that be possible? He and Aquam actually _cooperating_? Coordinating their actions? Two monsters, brought together by a third one. Well, the world has seen stranger things.

Probably.

All philosophical considerations aside, Chance had to make a decision, fast. Trust him to choose the craziest option. With one swift yank of the steering wheel he went off the road and straight through the neighborhood's pretty collection of backyard gardens, leaving a swath of destruction.

"WATCH OUT FOR THE SWIMMING…" Winston didn't get any further. Chance rushed past the above ground swimming pool of the corner house so closely, he tore its side open with the van's fender, flooding the house's lawn, the deck… and at least stopping those two cars that had followed them through the gardens.

Two less.

Chance managed to get back on the road, but unfortunately not to shake off their other pursuers.

If they called in the cops now, they'd have to answer all sorts of potentially risky questions. Not an option. The upset neighbors would see to that anyway, but this way they'd have a little more time. At least they had all attackers behind them now. Chance revved up and headed out of the suburban area, towards a more industrial one.

"Dude, I think one of the tires didn't survive the last picket fence." Guerrero spoke calmly, his weapon unwaveringly trained on the Zodiac, but the message alarming nevertheless. And yes, now Winston and Chance could feel it, too. The car was moving wobbly and it was getting worse. It didn't help that their pursuers were now shooting at them.

"Chance, there's a wall right in front of us … Chance … CHANCE!" Winston grabbed the passenger seat as Chance crashed through a gate boarded up with wooden panels, right into what looked like a former garage or factory. One of the panels broke through the window, shot into the car like a spear, left a deep scratch on Chance's face and dislocated his shoulder.

"You and Guerrero take the Zodiac, head out the back. You won't have much time before they've figured out where the back entrance is, but it's a headstart. I'll hold them back." Groaning with pain from his injured shoulder, Chance grabbed a shotgun from the back. The scratch on his face was bleeding quite heavily by now, blood impairing his vision. And as if that wasn't enough, the heavy impact of the vehicle colliding with the wood had also somehow injured his knee, he was limping visibly as he jumped out of the van, immediately firing a round at the approaching cars. With the weapon's blowback he was barely able to keep his balance.

"Dude, they'll stomp you into the ground! They know we're all here and have no means to use the girl as banter!"

"That's an army outside, Chance. And the police will arrive soon. They catch you with a shotgun…" Despite the circumstances, the fact that time was pressing, that they could all die if they didn't act fast, Winston had to swallow hard before he said the next words. Hell, he'd been a cop for twenty years and this was different than shooting a thug in self-defense. "He isn't worth it…", he finally said.

"If we throw him to the wolves, they'll make him disappear forever." Chance fired another round. His vision was swimming, not to mention the veil of blood that was leaving him half-blind. "The relatives of all those he killed will never find peace, knowing that the monster who took their loved ones got punished. And what about those killings that were only suspected? Those people deserve answers."

Fire from their attackers made them all duck.

"Leave!", Chance thundered. "NOW!"

Guerrero reached into the van and opened a secret compartment. The concealed door was a little difficult to open, thanks to the wrecked state of the vehicle.

"I'm going to make this easy for you, dude", Guerrero mumbled, wheeled around and shot Chance with a taser gun.

The electrodes hit him straight in the chest. Painless, but immediately immobilized, Chance went down like a ton of bricks. Winston, however, managed to catch him before he crashed to the ground. He had known about the hidden gun, and, the second Guerrero started groping around in the van's left corner, had seen it coming.

"Sorry, Chance", he mumbled, as he cautiously lowered him to the floor, making sure not to hurt him any further. Then he nodded at Guerrero, giving him the go ahead.

Guerrero activated his cell phone and called Aquam.

The Zodiac watched with eyes like dead fish.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

It hadn't taken Ash long to figure out who exactly the guest at the office was. Ilsa and Ames used the monitors in the conference room as TV and they kept watching the news, everything they could get about the gang wars. Ash could easily hear the reporters talk if he removed the rug in front of his computer desk, lay flat on the floor and used an empty glass as hearing aid.

One name was repeated over and over again: Kareem Aquam.

Ilsa and Ames weren't watching these particular news for no reason. His dad was somehow involved and that meant his client was somehow involved in this. And since he knew the client was the daughter of a gangster boss… She had to be Kareem Aquam's daughter.

What surprised him was her age – he had heard her speak when he had opened the door to his room a crack. Judging from her voice she had to be young, probably his age.

In theory Ash was well aware of the fact that gangster bosses had to have teenage children, too, but somehow knowing that a living, breathing exemplar of a multiple murderer's offspring was downstairs fixing a milkshake in the kitchen, was disturbing. Ash couldn't quite pinpoint what upset him so much about it, but something did.

What upset him even more, however, were the latest news – and Ilsa's and Ames' reaction to it. "Tell me that's not our van", he could hear Ilsa say. Ames' silence spoke volumes, and when she finally did speak – "this doesn't mean they burnt it with someone inside" – it only added to his worries. His dad was in deep trouble.

Confined to his room, Ash was going up the walls.

Shakeema had heard the news, too. The two women had tried to keep her from watching, but she heard very well and it wasn't much of a distance between the kitchen and the conference room. A shootout. Police had only found traces, a burnt car, lots of damaged buildings, fences, parked vehicles. No mention of any bodies. But that didn't mean there were none. Her father's people surely wouldn't leave him behind, dead or alive. The men had confiscated her mobile, so she had no means to find out more.

She was going up the walls.

It didn't help that Ilsa started marching up and down the lobby, a sound that, thanks to Ilsa's high heels, could very well be heard both in the kitchen and upstairs in Ash's room. Ames' "Can't get hold of any of them, calls go straight to voicemail.", wasn't exactly reassuring either.

The elevator's signal made them all go freeze frame. When Ames yelled "What happened?", there was no holding back for neither of the children. Ash yanked open the door of his room, Shakeema came rushing out of the kitchen.

Supported by Guerrero and Winston, Chance stumbled out of the elevator. His face was one crimson red mess.

"Go back, back!", Ilsa ordered, loudly and sharply.

Shakeema thought she was talking to her and simply refused. "What about my dad? Is he alright? Did you hurt him?", she all but shouted at the men.

Actually, however, Ilsa had been talking to Ash. She had heard the door open and correctly identified where the sound had been coming from. There was no way she could let Shakeema see that there was another kid around. She'd draw conclusions and in no time Aquam would have leverage on Chance.

Ash got the hint. His father was still alive, for the moment that was the most important thing, so in that regard he had seen enough. He had also heard enough, though – how dare that beast ask about her monster of a father first? While his dad was bleeding like hell, more stumbling than walking, obviously in great pain… Clenching his fists, he quietly slipped back into his room.

"We've got to get him to the bathroom first", Guerrero commanded. Both he and Winston were exhausted from the events of the afternoon, not to mention the minor injuries especially Guerrero had received during Chance's stunt with the van through the boarded up gate. Guerrero had already relocated Chance's shoulder and they managed to get Chance up the stairs, but then the women took charge and the men didn't complain.

Winston slumped into Chance's armchair in his living-room and poured himself a generous amount of Scotch. Ilsa waited till Guerrero had settled down on Chance's sofa, then gently removed his glasses and started cautiously disinfecting lots and lots of tiny scratches he had received when the wooden panel had crashed through the van's window. She felt his eyes on her as she meticulously moved from one wound to the other, using fresh cotton swabs for every cut. He was half-blind without his glasses, but still it felt like a wolf was watching her. One that had decided to trust her. For now.

In the bathroom Ames stripped Chance of his shirt without further ado and helped him out of his jeans, too. He needed help washing the blood off his face, his shoulder and knee needed cooling… Chance let it all happen. She steered him to lean backwards against the soothingly cold bathroom tiles and he closed his eyes. He hissed when she applied the disinfectant, but that was all. The pain in his shoulder was crashing against him in waves. Whenever it subsided a little, his injured knee started to pulsate. After a couple of minute he caved. Everyone had limits.

"There's… there…", he mumbled, then pointed at the medicine cabinet. "The green bottle… a syringe… "

"I'll do that", Ames said determinedly. "I know how to inject somebody with something." She glanced at the label. "But we'll better do this in the bedroom. This stuff kicks in fast."

… … …

Ash, meanwhile, had decided that there was no way he was just sitting around doing nothing while his father was dealing with the aftermath of what had obviously been a highly dangerous job. And since he couldn't do anything else, he decided to vent his frustration. Quietly he sneaked out of his room, down the stairs and to the guestroom.

Shakeema was more than shocked when suddenly a strange boy yanked her door open and entered her room. "Don't shout", he hissed at her.

"Who are you?", she snarled, but more out of habit than actual lack of knowledge. One glance and she knew. He looked so much like the blond man, he had to be his son. "What is this about?"

"They risked their lives for you and first thing you did was ask about that scumbag Kareem Aquam!" Outraged as he was, Ash kept his voice down, reducing it to a low hiss.

"What's your problem?", Shakeema, not willing to take crap from anybody, shot back.

"Your father is a murderer! Innocent people have died because of him! And still he's more important to you than the men who went out there to protect you!"

Shakeema pulled herself up in front of Ash. "I love my father and he loves me. That is all that matters."

Taken aback, both by the content of her statement and the unwavering strength with which she delivered it, Ash was lost for words for a moment.

"He's a monster", he finally said. Knowing his time was running out, he walked back to the guestroom's door. "There's no way to love a monster, unless you're a monster yourself."

… … …

Upstairs in Chance's living-quarters, Ames had just finished giving Chance the injection. She decided she'd spent the night in the armchair by the window to make sure he'd be okay. Ilsa called from the living-room: "Is there another syringe in the bathroom?"

A second later, Ames heard a muffled "ouch". Guerrero had grabbed Ilsa's wrist. "You're NOT going to sedate me like Chance."

"You're exhausted. You're injured. You need rest." Ilsa knew better than trying to pull her hand free.

"Not yet." Guerrero hauled himself up from the sofa. The way he moved to the door, quietly, like some sort of panther, told Ilsa that something was off. Winston was watching Guerrero intently, too. When he moved downstairs, they wanted to follow him, but a curt motion of his hand stopped them. He hadn't drawn his gun so at least they knew they needn't brace themselves for another attack tonight.

… … …

"You have no idea what you're talking about", Shakeema snarled.

"I know right from wrong", Ash spat, opened the door, slipped out and quietly closed it behind him. The office was silent. If he now managed to…

"Hey, dude."

… … …

In Chance's bedroom Ames had already arranged a pillow and a blanket in the armchair when she decided to get up one more time and check that Chance was fully covered. His injured body needed warmth now. Bent over his sleeping form, she tugged at his blanket to pull it a little further over his shoulder.

Just then his hand shot out, grabbed her wrist and held on to it. Oh damn, she should have known better, especially after overhearing only minutes earlier what Guerrero had done to Ilsa – after a day full of adrenalin his instincts were still running full force, protecting him even when he was deep in a drug-induced slumber.

Ames didn't have the heart to disturb him. He needed rest. Sighing, she curled up by his side, her face to his, as he still, surprisingly gently now, held on to her hand.

How strange, she mused as she stared into the semi-darkness, that the Zodiac, who had caused so much pain and wreaked so much havoc, had left this world so unceremoniously. She couldn't help but think that Chance had been right to try and hand the Zodiac over to the police. The relatives of his victims… they'd go to their graves without knowing he had been punished. He'd be famous for ever, just what he had wanted. A fascinating mystery no one could solve that would always be remembered.

But what else could they have done?

With her free hand, Ames pushed a few stray strands of hair out of Chance's face.

In their game there were no clean wins.


	8. Scarabian Nights

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ Scarabian Nights ~ **_

_"This is serious Ash. We've got rules here."_ Ash snorted as he remembered his father's sermon this morning after Guerrero had caught him sneaking out of Shakeema's room.

_"They were not made to bug you or push you around, they're meant to protect you. In my line of work retaliation is a very real and constant threat, not only to me but to everyone around me. That includes you! Everybody is working very hard to make this office a place as safe as possible so that we two can be together. Yesterday you put that safety at risk, for no reason at all."_ Ash kicked a small stone into the track bed. Guerrero had made him confess his transgression all by himself. Talk about humiliation.

_"You're not going to watch that ice-hockey game with your team tomorrow afternoon. Training yes, but no sticking around afterwards. You'll head straight back to the office and help Winston with the paperwork." _And _that _had definitely been adding insult to injury. Being punished like a small kid! He kicked another stone into the track bed.

"What is it?", Isamu asked, frowning.

"Nothing."

"You received a penalty for charging twice. And once for cross-checking." Isu loved watching Ash play. Hockey was not his game, he had inherited his father's slender body, on the ice he'd be reduced to a splat within a minute. At Guerrero's advice he was taking karate lessons now, but he had no illusions. When it came down to brute strength, he would always be on the losing side.

"The trick is not to let it come down to brute strength", Guerrero had told him. "Always have a contingency plan."

"Such as?"

"Skills no one thinks you have", Guerrero had told him after the briefest of hesitation, but Isu suspected he had wanted to reply something else. He knew Guerrero was always armed.

Anyway, he loved watching Ash play. The boys from his team already knew him from the time Ash had trained for the tryout and didn't mind him being around. They were all a bit older, it was cool hanging out with them.

Ash didn't reply, but it was obvious he was brooding. Combined with the fact that they hadn't stuck around to watch the game afterwards with the others…

"You broke THE RULES, didn't you?"

Ash raised a questioning eyebrow.

"THE RULES", Isu repeated, obviously surprised that Ash didn't seem to know what he was talking about. "You father is a bodyguard, just like mine was. Don't tell me he didn't set certain rules you MAY NOT BREAK cause it would threaten your life."

From the look on Ash's face Isu could tell he knew what he was talking about.

"One of the rules included that he didn't tell me he was my father. Too dangerous. Mom told me only after he was dead."

Ash stared at his feet for a long moment. "THE RULES suck", he finally said.

"Yeah, they do." Now Isu kicked a stone into the track bed. The Muni train that would bring them back home from Daly City arrived.

"You know what?", Ash suddenly said as they got up to enter. "Paying for that stupid ride sucks, too."

Oh wow, now _that_ gave the usually rather tedious trip home a whole new dimension. Transit fare inspectors checked this route relatively seldom, but they had been asked to show their tickets before.

"I've heard they're doing saturation stings with groups of TFIs and uniformed police downtown", Isu whispered as the doors hissed closed behind them.

"Not that much of a problem", Ash replied dismissively. "They're easy to recognize with their uniforms and all. The plain clothes inspectors are a lot more dangerous to us."

Isu didn't agree. "Plain clothes are usually working in pairs only. Not too difficult to escape them. But a whole group? Including police officers?"

"You can only escape what you recognize."

"Plain clothes don't blend in." Isu was in his element now. This was something he had played with his father when he still had thought he was just a friend of his mother's. _Who is the store detective? Who is from the health authority to check this restaurant?_

"It's in the way they look at people. No one in his right mind looks at other people on public transportation, only the weirdoes do. And the inspectors who are trying to figure out if you bought a ticket or not", he explained.

"Just like the guy over there?", Ash asked, nodding as unobtrusively as possible in the direction of a middle-aged Afro-American.

Oh yes, just like him.

Thank God the train was just reaching Powell Street station. With one fluid motion both boys jumped up. With a scratch of his fingernails Ash tore open the grocery bag of the passenger right next to him, making sure his body covered the deed from the security cam on the ceiling. The unsuspecting passenger apparently had a thing for fruit – oranges, lemons and tangerines came tumbling out of the torn back, effectively stopping the inspector from closing in on them. His partner, which they had spotted on the other end of the train, was approaching them, too, but he was too far away yet. They quickly rushed out of the train…

…oh damn, that partner was quite fast…

…they hadn't calculated how much Ash's equipment would slow them down….

The inspector slipped out of the train right behind them and chased them down the block.

"Spread out!", Ash shouted and at the next corner they split up, forcing their pursuer to decide between one of them. Ash knocked down a garbage can to draw his attention to him. It had been his idea after all.

Luckily, however, the inspector decided the two weren't worth the trouble and gave up.

… … …

Chance saw his boy stepping out of the elevator and recognized the look on his face immediately.

Adrenalin.

"Dude had an exciting afternoon", Guerrero remarked, glancing up from his notebook.

"He looks like you after jumping off a 12-storey building", Winston agreed.

"I don't think he jumped off anything." Chance knew something was up, yes. But yet another heart-to-heart talk? Jeez, telling him off this morning had been hard enough. He hated punishing him.

"But he sure did something crazy."

Winston and Guerrero agreeing, that was actually pretty scary.

Luckily the telephone rang at this very moment, saving Chance from having to take educational steps immediately.

The caller was a woman, maybe in her twenties. "My name is Emily, Emily Gray. You've saved my husband a while back… You probably don't remember him."

"John Gray? The monastery? The pope's ring? Of course I remember him", Chance told her, noticing happily that the young man and his girlfriend had gotten married. "How is he? Out of prison by now, I hope."

"Something terrible has happened."


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Emma Barnes closed her eyes and went through her mental list of things to take into consideration one more time.

_According to the wire tap not more than five thugs were present at the drug lord's HQ at any time. He didn't like his place overcrowded. Only led to domestics among the boys. _

His muscle was always heavily armed, yes, but she was bringing a SWAT team of fifteen people. Should be sufficient.

_The HQ had, minus the windows, three exits, one in the front, two in the back. _

She had made sure all would be guarded by marksmen on the roof at any time during the operation.

_The drug lord himself was present every Friday night to count the week's income. He was extra-careful, yes, but this time his extra-carefulness would cost him. They'd catch him red-handed. _

Three months of meticulous observation had shown that he never ever changed this routine, not even with all the road construction noise around the funeral parlor he used as a front for his HQ.

_No funeral was set for Friday evening, so no civilians would be around. _

She had checked and double-checked this. The drug lord preferred the Friday nights at the funeral home to be quiet. Despite their attempts to make this look like a regular business, on Fridays past six they didn't take any calls, accepted no jobs.

Emma took a deep breath. She had thought of everything. Absolutely everything. Nothing could go wrong. This was a thoroughly planned operation and her ticket to finally becoming unit chief.

"At your command, Agent Barnes", the SWAT team leader told her.

Emma nodded, determined to give the impression of not being worried at all. Appearances were very important at the level she was aiming for.

"Everybody in position?", she asked.

Confirmative noises coming in from all radio channels. All that was left to do for her was to give the go ahead.

Why was she hesitating? A bad gut feeling?

Actually it was the lack thereof. Ever since that dreadful day in that horror house with Chance she had totally lost her instincts. What was right, what was wrong? She hadn't known whether to leave Chance behind or not and ever since deciding to leave this insecurity had stayed with her, even after she had found out he was still alive.

It was ridiculous, who needed instincts when there was meticulous planning?

"Let's go!", she commanded.

They went in through all three doors at once.

And found out there were at least 30 thugs present.

Together with two relatives of a recently deceased high school teacher who had personal ties to one of the higher up-thugs and got through with their insistence on their relation being taken care of immediately.

Two SWAT team members fell prey to a booby trap attached to the left backdoor. Another two were killed when they tried to get upstairs, into the drug lord's "office"…

…while the drug lord escaped through a secret tunnel that had been built under the pretext of road construction right under their noses during the last few weeks.

The two civilians died in the crossfire when the SWAT team tried to get to the cellar.

Five thugs died, holding the door to that cellar, but who is counting them? Unless of course one of them is a thirteen year old boy, apparently affiliated to the thugs, but without a weapon of his own.

_Without a weapon. _

Oh, damn.

As Emma walked through the mayhem in the aftermath of the raid, she could already hear her boss, shouting at her.

"Why didn't you check if the road construction was real? How come there were so many more thugs in the HQ than you expected? How could a complete funeral car escape your notice? And HOW THE HELL didn't you realize that no one was ever using the left back door?"

What, what, what should she tell him? There _had _to be something that would save her career. She couldn't blame this on anybody else, she couldn't hold bureaucracy at fault for this disaster, but maybe she could…

"Agent Barnes?" One of the younger agents called her. "A call from the hospital. The third agent that was injured when the booby trap went off just died."

Damn, damn, damn! If she didn't come up with anything FAST, this was it. The end of everything she had worked for so hard.

… … …

Emily Gray looked different than Chance remembered. Older. Thinner. And not in a good "I've-tried-this-fantastic-diet-devised-by-an-Indian-sadhu-and-not-felt-hungry-once"-way. She looked haggard.

"It started while John was still in prison", she began. "At first it was just a cough. He was working in the prison garden at that time, they moved him to the library. It got worse. They suspected an allergy, lifted him of all work duty in the end. No effect. When the cough began to produce black sputum, they released him."

Winston handed Emily a cup of tea.

"It's gotten worse ever since. He can't work, he can't walk, he can't even use the bathroom alone anymore. I took him to all sorts of doctors and when I couldn't transport him anymore I paid them to come and see him. Used up all my family's savings, borrowed money… last month finally somebody managed to come up with a diagnosis…"

"If this is about payment, the Marshall Pucci Foundation has a program that…" Ilsa was already going through her mental list of contacts. Putting in a good word for this poor woman wouldn't pose much of a problem. Granted, her husband was a convicted criminal, but with a careful word choice in the application…

"This is not about payment", Emily whispered, more to herself than to the others. "It's about…_crazy_."

Winston and Guerrero glanced at each other, then, simultaneously, at Chance. "One could say we're experienced with "crazy", Winston finally replied.

Chance gave him a "Who? Me?" look of total innocence.

"They say the past always catches up with you…" Emily didn't notice any of the exchange between the men. Her hands were shaking badly. "The doctor says it might be a very rare infection with fungal spores. He can develop a treatment, but for that he needs a sample of the original source of infection."

Guerrero rolled his eyes heavenwards. So that was where the "crazy" was coming from. "We're talking ancient fungal spores here, right?"

Winston looked at him in surprise. "How the…?

"Dude, since you don't need your head to carry hair around, maybe you should actually use it. John Gray specialized in expensive art. Where did he snoop around?" Guerrero was addressing Emily directly now. "Medieval dungeon? Celtic grave? Egyptian tomb?"

"He helped stealing a mummy, a couple of months before we met. Queen Tetisheri, the matriarch of the Egyptian royal family of the late 17th Dynasty and early 18th Dynasty."

"And the next thing you're going to tell us is that there's a curse connected with it, right?

"Ever since it was stolen, the mummy had three new owners. None of them kept it long", she said. "They all died – shootout, plane crash, drowned in swimming-pool..."

"And still someone else was willing to buy it every time..." Guerrero shook his head. When he noticed Winston staring at him, he scoffed. "It's a marketing strategy, dude. The scarier the background story, the more people willing to prove how brave they are."

Chance openly laughed at Winston's worried face. "We're taking on a mummy! Don't tell me you aren't excited!"

Ilsa decided she'd put a bit more money into the bank account they used for bribe money. They might need a very special specialist… Exorcists were expensive, or so she had heard.

Winston wondered if a bottle of holy water would do any good and came to the conclusion that it was worth a try.

Ames looked at Chance's shoulder, knowing that it couldn't have recovered this early after getting dislocated. She decided to pack extra cooling gel.

And a stake.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Finding the latest owner of the mummy in question hadn't posed much of an obstacle. Guerrero had located it in South America, at a notorious weapon smuggler's hacienda. Other aspects of the job, however, turned out to be a little more problematic than they had seemed at first glance…

"What does Tetisheri mean, actually?", Ames asked.

"Do you really need to know this _now_?" Chance climbed a little higher up the metal bar, just in time to escape the crocodile's impressive jaw, snapping shut only inches from his heel.

"Maybe I don't want to die stupid." Ames would have shrugged her shoulder, hadn't she been dangling from a bar herself.

"Positive thinking, Ames", Chance shot back. "Haven't you listened to Ilsa's team building coach before Guerrero scared him away? Positive thinking is the key!"

The poor guy. Guerrero had given him a taste of his own business philosophy…

"_Tetisheri - She who never gives up_, according to this website", Winston explained, radioing from their makeshift HQ a couple of miles from the South American weapon smuggler's hacienda.

"Happy now?", Chance asked Ames.

"So Tetisheri is Egyptian for "Royal pain in the ass"? Yeah, makes sense…"

One of the crocodiles violently dashed its tail against the metal bars, probably hoping its future meal would lose balance. The learning experience this action spoke of wasn't exactly encouraging.

"Any news from Guerrero?" Chance asked through gritted teeth. His shoulder was troubling him badly and the deep gash along his leg didn't help either. Not to mention that the smell of blood was drawing more and more reptiles. Heavens, why did every South American gangster have to have his own collection of prehistoric killer machines? When did Dobermans go out of style?

"Except the gunshots and the cries of pain that came over the radio five minutes ago?" Winston was trying to make light of it, but the fact that they hadn't heard from Guerrero ever since was just as discouraging as the well thought-out actions of the crocodiles.

"They weren't _his_ cries of pain, were they?" Chance put every ounce of strength he had left in his arms, swung, tried to get one leg over the traverse strut of the fence… and failed. Instead of getting closer to safety, something inside his shoulder ripped, a muscle, a tendon, whatever… the end result left him hanging from the bar with only one arm.

Damn, they were in trouble. And judging from the shouting and crashing coming in via radio, they were not the only ones.

They had found Winston…

"So what is this?" A heavily accented voice, coming from the stairs that led inside the hacienda's main building.

"Some American tourists, trying to steal my hard earned money? My beloved jewelry? My exquisite art collection?" The boss of the weapon smuggler ring had a thin black moustache, wore a shiny white suit together with a thick golden chain around his neck and looked every bit the cliché he sounded like.

"I don't see what's so artistic about a dead woman wrapped in rags", Ames hissed, swinging away from another crocodile's jaw just in time.

"When Ilsa's coach was talking about diplomatic conversation strategy you weren't listening either, were you?" Chance twisted away from Ames so he could face the smuggler boss directly. "What about negotiating something?"

"What did she say about a dead woman?"

"Nothing, she just thought aloud, she's young, scared, you know how girls can be…"

Ames aimed a kick at Chance's posterior.

"She was talking about my Egyptian mummy, wasn't she?"

Chance stifled a groan. Great, now he knew their agenda. Giant disadvantage. Could this job get any worse? "Dead woman wrapped in rags, that could mean a lot of things…", he tried to cover Ames' blunder.

"You're after my Egyptian mummy, aren't you?"

Chance struggled for an answer. This called for some really well thought out tactical approach.

The smuggler, however, didn't give him an opportunity to reply properly. "Why didn't you tell me that in the first place?", he asked, suddenly all smiles.

Chance almost lost his grip on the bar.

"Come on boys, get a ladder and a dead pig or something, we need to help our guests to get out of there." And off the smuggler's muscle went, to get a ladder and some bait in order to save Chance and Ames.

"Now tell me again just how bad my diplomatic conversation strategy was", Ames smirked at Chance.

Ten minutes later they were all sitting in the weapon smuggler's air conditioned atrium. Winston and Guerrero had been brought in, too. Guerrero was sporting a black eye, but other than that they were unharmed. The thug's personal nurse was tending to Chance's injuries under Ames' watchful eyes and they were sipping at scotch on the rocks. A maid brought hors d'oeuvre which Winston eyed with great suspicion and Guerrero worked his way through with remarkable effectiveness.

"So I gather you don't mind us taking an interest in the mummy?", Chance began.

"My men are packing it for you while we're talking. You couldn't do me a bigger favor than transporting that cursed thing as far away from me as possible. Ever since I bought it, it brought me nothing but trouble – business is down, the government is snooping around in my tax paying habits, this is my third hacienda within six months, lost the first two to wood worms and tropical storms. Take it away from me!" The smuggler was practically pleading. "Today. I'll pay you!"

"15.000 for each of us. Plus expenses", Guerrero said.

Winston gave him a stern look.

"What? You've got to seize opportunities when they present themselves, dude. Rule number one in business. Remember that coach Ilsa hired a while ago?"

The smuggler's nurse wasn't only rather attractive (Ames wondered if the short skirt was workwear, required by her employer, or strategy, aiming at one day becoming more than just a nurse), she was also quite competent. "With these kind of injuries you shouldn't handle that dreadful thing", she advised Chance. "You should rest your shoulder. The wound on your leg isn't to be taken lightly either."

"Don't worry, we'll just get it out of here and hand it to the next museum. Piece of cake."


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

**_A/N: Finally ff net lets me upload again! Sorry for the delay!_**

Ever since she had overslept the return of the men from the job in Sacramento a couple of months ago, hadn't even noticed that they had set up something resembling a small field hospital in the kitchen and, to top thing off, had not prevented Ash from seeing his father badly hurt, Ilsa slept very lightly. There was no way she would snore away like that ever again while around her troops of notorious ex-/current criminals walked to and fro.

Guerrero had played a significant part in developing this new sleeping habit – for weeks he had broken into her apartment almost every night, wreaking havoc one way or the other. Some mornings she had just had to deal with an empty fridge (not that it contained much anyway), others she had woken up and found herself chained to the bedpost. After the thing he did to her shampoo and shower lotion, she had learned her lesson.

Thus the slight scraping sound, though barely audible and light as butterfly's wing beat, nevertheless woke her up. For a moment she just lay still, eyes closed, concentrating on breathing evenly and listening, just like Guerrero had taught her. When she was sure no one was with her in the room she slowly opened her eyes. The noise was coming from the lobby. Carmine, sleeping at the door to the guestroom, apparently didn't hear a thing, but that wasn't saying much, she had seen him sleep through hand grenade attacks.

Ilsa took the flashlight from the nightstand and, at second thought, the gun Chance had given her for protection, from the drawer. Dim moonlight was seeping in from the windows, enough for her to make her way without running into furniture, so she didn't switch the flashlight on. Barefooted she padded towards the lobby, making sure to stay close to the wall and using shadows as cover. The scratching and scraping that had woken her grew louder as she approached the elevator.

What kind of a noise was that? The alert system hadn't gone off, that calmed her a little, but still this was unsettling. It sounded as if something was trapped inside the elevator car. A mouse maybe? But judging from the sounds it had to be more than one…

Deciding that it was better to be safe than sorry, Ilsa released the gun's safety catch and aimed at the sliding door with one hand while activating the button that would open the elevator with the other. The engine made the familiar dinging sound, the doors slid aside…

…and thousands and thousands of pitch black beetles poured out of the car like one huge crawling, creeping wave. It swept over the office floor and washed against her feet, her bare skin immediately covered with insects, scraping and scratching at it…

Screaming at the top of her lungs, Ilsa fired into the elevator, emptying the whole round, but the beetles kept coming and coming, started climbing up her legs, sneaked into her underwear…

_Bring me home, _a voice suddenly breathed in her ear. _Bring me home. I want to go home. _

And there, among the waves and waves of beetles, was a woman, middle-aged, dark hair, white cotton dress, exotic golden jewelry around her neck and wrists.

_Bring me home. _

"Ilsa? Ilsa?"

Ilsa's eyes flew open and she realized she was staring at Ash, standing at her bed in his pajamas, hair tousled from sleep. Carmine, panting, was at his side. When she dizzily shook her head to chase the remnants of the nightmare she had apparently just had out of the way, the dog rose on its hind legs and licked across her face.

"Was it that bad?", she asked the boy.

Ash nodded slowly, apparently worried. "Can I get you something? A glass of water?"

"A phone."

… … …

The weapon smuggler had been very friendly and generous, but Ames had nevertheless declined his offer to use his bathroom at her heart's delight. Pity, actually, since he had a swimming-pool sized Jacuzzi tub in it, a white marble shower, a flat screen TV embedded in the mirror in front of the Jacuzzi… the bathroom in the shabby hotel they were spending the night (was this Ilsa's revenge for having to stay at home again, babysitting Ash?) had, well, a shower head, coming out of the wall.

At least the water was hot. The pressure varied, one second it shot out with enormous force, the next it was reduced to a soft trickle. Aside from that the water pipe made very strange noises, like it was gurgling and groaning. Ah well, she wasn't planning to spend ages here, just a quick once-over, to get rid of the sweat and dust.

The pipe made another heavy groaning sound, the water supply faltered, came to a complete halt, another groan and whoosh, it shot out again, hotter and with more force than ever before.

And thicker…

Thicker?

Ames reached to touch her shoulder blade where some of the water seemed to stick. Her fingers brushed against something cold and slick and … squirming. She looked down to the ground – there were worms at her feet. Black, thick, squirming worms. And some of them were sucking at her skin.

Her scream sent Chance dropping everything and crashing first through her hotel room's and then the bathroom's door. Ames was so horrified, she was frozen to the spot, could do nothing but lash out at the creatures, trying madly to get rid of them.

"Ames, Ames, calm down!" Chance grabbed her towel, threw it around her and pulled her away from the still pouring water.

"The locals calls them Resbaladizos. They sometimes infest water tanks. Don't worry, they're harmless."

"GET THEM OFF!"

Chance plucked a particularly fat worm off her shoulders, then started working his way downwards, quickly disposing of the animals by throwing them back in the shower. Ames discarded the towel, not caring that she was standing naked in front of Chance now. He was fast and effective, his eyes focused on the ugly creatures and in no time at all he had them removed, but they had left bloody sucking marks on her, only superficial, but still… Ames was shaking all over.

"What if one is caught in my hair?"

"Come on." Chance gently steered her into the actual hotel room. He would have carried her, but with his shoulder this was out of the question. With a gentle touch to her neck he made her sit down on the bed, handed her a fresh towel and took her comb. Ames was still shaking visibly. He wrapped his arm around her, drew her to his chest and began combing her hair.

Slowly her breathing evened out and her shivers subsided. The worms were gone, she was safe now. Ames hesitated for a moment, then leaned against him. Despite the heat and the stuffy air in the badly ventilated room, the warmth of his body felt comforting, soothing. The steady movement of the comb chased the images of the ugly worms away, created a rhythm that finally helped her drift off to sleep.

Chance held her in his arms for a long moment, lost in thought. Then he cautiously lowered her to the bed and got up. Now he was shaking. She looked so young when she was sleeping.

Vulnerable.

Suddenly determined, he turned around and exited the room, walking fast, his jaw set.

… … …

In Winston's room Guerrero and Winston were arguing.

"No", Chance could hear Winston say. "We're not going to tell him. You know how he is. Can't resist a damsel in distress even if she's been dead for a thousand years. Since when do you believe in that supernatural shit anyway? Ilsa just had a bad dream."

"Dude, have you seen his shoulder? His leg? He needs some sort of R&R and at the office he won't get it. In Egypt on the other hand, all we have to do is put the old chick back where she belongs. No threat whatsoever, just breaking into a tomb without any kind of security system except some hieroglyphs on the wall. Maybe we'll have to bribe a guard in the valley of the kings, but that'll be it. Closest thing to a vacation he'll accept."

"Ilsa dreamt we should bring the mummy home?"

Both Guerrero and Winston wheeled around in surprise. Damn, he had a badly injured shoulder and a torn up leg, how the hell did he manage to move that silently?

"Well then how could I deny a queen a wish?"

Now Guerrero and Winston were even more surprised.

"There's one thing, though…", Chance continued.

… … …

The next morning when Ames woke up, Winston informed her that she would bring the sample for John Gray to San Francisco while he, Guerrero and Chance would escort the mummy home.

"You're going without me?", she asked, but what she was actually thinking was "He's going without me?"

She called Ken to pick her up from the airport.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

A slight turbulence briefly shook the plane, resulting in some rattling of equipment and luggage, but none of the men paid much attention to it.

"The situation in Cairo is volatile – unrest among the people, the tiniest spark and riots break out. The role of the military is unclear yet, the elected government is weak… " Winston looked up from his notes and threw Guerrero a very dark look. _"Vacation, huh?"_, it said.

Guerrero replied with an unfazed shrug. _"By Chance's standards…"_, it said.

"I've got a guy on the tarmac at Cairo Airport, he'll help us get the mummy through customs", he then explained aloud. "Found a safe place to stow her, too. All that's left is pick a place where to leave her."

"Ilsa is sending an art historian, a classical scholar and an archaeologist. We'll meet them at the Hilton, they'll help us decide." Chance gave Winston the list Ilsa had texted him.

"Whoa, some big names…."

"It helps when there's a Pucci wing in the British Museum, dude."

Chance, however, looked at Winston with newly awoken interest. "You recognize famous archaeologists and art historians by name?"

"Michele bullied me into a San Francisco Friends of the Fine Arts membership."

Now he had Guerrero's interest, too. "Your marriage ended years ago. Must have been ages since you last went to a meeting. And you still recognize those names?"

Winston looked at Chance, hoping for back-up, but he had tilted his head in amused interest. "Anything you'd like to tell us, Winston?"

"Invasion of privacy!", he snarled, rocking back in his seat.

Guerrero scoffed and pulled out his smartphone, apparently going through his contacts. "Don't steal my lines, dude."

"Who will it be, Steven or Ethel?", Chance asked him, grinning broadly and ostentatiously ignoring Winston.

"Ethel belongs to the same church as Michele and she's been a bit late in her payments lately…shouldn't be much of a problem for her to get a dinner invitation that'll lead to a nice chat among girls… "

"You two are unbelievable!" Winston was fuming. "We saw each other at the society's 25th anniversary. Every member was invited. Free buffet! And a lecture from that art historian on Ilsa's list… We didn't go there together, I didn't pick her up, we just ran into each other and… talked… for a while."

"Quite a lot of words to say nothing happened… " Chance was definitely enjoying himself, his eyes were sparkling with mischief.

Winston let out an angry sigh. Thank God the plane was touching down.

… … …

"The stela at Abydos, erected by her grandson, pharaoh Ahmose I, clearly states that they were going to set up a permanent resting place for her in a pyramid." Professor Foster, the classical scholar, practically stomped his feet.

"Apparently all those Greek hieroglyphs from that dubious temple near Rhodes you've lately dedicated so much time to are clouding your judgment. The symbol you're referring to _might_ mean "pyramid", but a translation with "tomb" would be just as possible, and that opens a whole new world of burial sites which at the moment you're blatantly ignoring." Where Prof. Foster was loud, Professor Whitman, the archaeologist, was sarcastic.

"Excuse me? Are you still angry that the research assignment in Rhodes was given to me and not to you?" Professor Foster twirled his moustache indignantly.

"No offense, but some jobs should be left to professionals."

"So being able to use a brush correctly and piece together a couple of ceramic shards makes you an expert? I'm sorry, but how profound is your knowledge in the classical languages again? You might be scoffing at the Greek hieroglyphs at Rhodes, but can you tell a kappa from an omicron?" Professor Foster knew how to use sarcasm, too.

"They are not hieroglyphs! The Greek didn't use hieroglyphs! You can't just call any assembly of pictograms hieroglyphs!"

"Maybe we could come back to the question how to elicit the meaning of the Egyptian hieroglyph in question?", Professor Salt, the art historian, dared to chime in.

Both Professor Foster and Professor Whitman tensed up, turned around and bore their eyes into Ilsa's third expert. It hadn't taken Winston, Chance and Guerrero long to realize that "real" historians regard art historians as wannabes who steal research assignments away by speculating about pictures.

"Why don't you share your opinion with us?", Professor Whitman asked Professor Salt with all the friendliness of a snake.

"Well, according to an essay by Rollins and Hepten…"

"Oh, I just knew you'd bring up Rollins and Hepten…"

"Rollins and Hepten, for heaven's sake…"

It was very interesting, seeing Foster and Whitman suddenly join forces, after they'd been at each other's throats only moments earlier.

"If we could maybe agree on a definition of the word "burial site" first, since this is what the gentlemen have been asking for…", Professor Salt made another conciliatory effort.

"I'd suggest we follow Raskel and Herbiger's definition of 1952…" Professor Whitman had the nerve wrecking habit of tapping his pen against the table they were all sitting at.

"Why not the version of 1955?" Professor Foster twirled his moustache again.

"The 1955 version made a blatantly vague use of the word "demesne"!" Professor Whitman tapped his pen so hard against the table, it bounced back, he lost grip of it and it skidded across the floor till it came to a halt at Guerrero's feet. Guerrero picked it up. The look on his face made it very clear that he wasn't planning to give it back.

"There's a fantastic essay by Ossinsky dealing with the various aspects of the demesne term…", Professor Salt tried again.

Chance, however, had enough. He got up, exited the room and took out his cell phone. "Ilsa? The woman in your dream… was there anything special about her?... Yes, except the beetles swarming around her feet… She didn't happen to have an address label attached to her clothes somewhere or something? Take a moment, think about it, then describe her to me."

Meanwhile Winston had joined Chance: "You think Ilsa's _dream_ might help us find out where to put the mummy? Never pictured you as someone believing in supernatural shit."

"Guerrero is this close to start his very own experimental archaeology project and in the end we'll have to get rid of four mummies instead of one."

As if on cue, Guerrero rounded the corner, reading from his smartphone: "Did you know that during the embalming process the brain was taken out with a hook? They stuck it up the nose until it grabbed the brain and then pulled it out through the nostrils." Guerrero bookmarked the webpage.

Chance threw Winston a look: _See?_

"Maybe we should just go through with our original plan and hand the mummy over to a museum – it would be back in the hands of the Egyptian people then, wouldn't it?", Winston suggested.

"With all the political unrest? It would probably end up in some general's private collection or on Ebay within days… The mummy is a dead person after all, it deserves a permanent resting place, doesn't it?"

Just then Chance's phone rang – Ilsa. She had remembered something.

… … …

A couple of minutes later, Chance stuck his head into the hotel room again. Just in time to see Professor Foster and Professor Whitman jump to their feet, shouting at each other:

"There's no such thing as Egyptian nationalism 1500 BC!"

"The term nationalism is independent of modernity, it can be applied to all epochs!"

Professor Salt, however, was losing his patience, too:

"Nationalism and Enlightenment form an inseparable connection, you cannot…"

"Uh, guys?" Chance stepped into the room to make sure they wouldn't gouge each other's eyes out with their pencils. "A necklace with a green scarab and a golden cobra, eyes made of lapis, most likely, does that somehow help narrow down where the mummy was originally buried?"

"The eastern part of the necropolis in Thebes, they found a wall painting of a woman with similar jewelry there…", Professor Foster said.

"A mastaba with characteristic lion basalt reliefs on the outside…", Professor Whitman added.

"Renewed excavations of the Oriental Institute indicate that the mastaba with the lion is actually a pyramid, just never finished", Professor Salt said. "So actually it would be more appropriate to call the building a…"

"Oh, SHUT UP!", both his colleagues yelled at him.

Chance and the others, however, were already on the move.

So Thebes it would be.


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"So, we're going to enter an ancient Egyptian tomb at night... according to the guidebook the inscription on the foot of the statue next to the entrance means _Beware, intruders. A horrible death awaits all those who dare to walk where our kings and queens rest._ Lovely."

Winston looked around the eerily quiet necropolis. Crumbling ruins in a chilling desert night and no soul around. "You don't happen to have any experience in this field, do you? Some job for Joubert that taught you how to deal with curses, undead queens and inexplicable phenomena?"

"Mummies are dead by definition, dude. No need to waste money on us."

"Wiseass."

"Suddenly you're believing in that supernatural shit, Winston?" It was too dark for him to see, but Winston was quite sure Chance was laughing.

"No, I'm not. But we all know there might be all sorts of traps – spears flying out of nowhere… fire falling from the ceiling… floors suddenly giving way… moving walls that squash intruders… and what about those spores that got to John Gray?"

"Dude, next time there's an Indiana Jones marathon on the movie channel, no TV for you."

"Those spores got to John Gray because he was in direct contact with the corpse… there was a Scarab amulet underneath the bandages Sam Fisher was after." Chance nodded at Winston, indicating that he should help lifting the mummy's sarcophagus. It came in handy that Guerrero's guys had put it into a square-shaped wooden box, easier to grip. Together they carried it into the mastaba.

"By the way, you've forgotten the more exotic obstacles: Giant rocks rolling towards the intruders, acid puddles, boiling oil, spiders of all sizes, bewitched skeletons of unfortunate grave robbers…."

"It's great you're having fun, Chance", Winston grumbled.

"…not to mention real live ones…" Guerrero, who had led the way with a flashlight, suddenly stopped. There was another light at the end of the corridor they were walking down. A very bright light, meant to illuminate one of the larger chambers of the mastaba.

Collectors all over the world were willing to pay surprisingly huge amounts of money for real Egyptian wall paintings to adorn their own living-room walls with. Given the current state of the country, with no one really in charge, these artifacts were a lot easier to come by lately. Equipped with hammers and chisels, whole families entered the less prominent tombs at night and removed what for centuries had been hidden and reserved for the dead alone to see.

Opportunity makes thieves.

Heavily armed thieves, in this case. And they didn't hesitate – they opened fire the second they noticed they weren't alone anymore. Guerrero fired back while Chance and Winston with the sarcophagus retreated quickly into a side chamber. Shouting from the mastaba's entrance indicated that more grave robbers were pouring in. Apparently there had been someone on the lookout that hadn't been up to the job and now tried to make up for his blunder.

They were trapped, cornered in a room with only one exit by at least half a dozen grave robbers. So far Guerrero and Chance were able to hold the door, but for how long?

Chance's cell phone rang, but he was definitely too busy to take the call.

A second later Winston's cell phone rang. He checked the display and rolled his eyes. As if they didn't have their hands full already. "This better be important, Ames…"

"I've thought long and hard and it's just not okay that you sent me home and totally left me out of Egypt!"

"What is this? An official complaint? Doesn't Ilsa have a form for that?"

"I've done research on that Tetisheri chick. Did you know she was called the meanest queen of the eighteenth dynasty? She knew all the dirty tricks in the game – ever crossed your mind I might have wanted to see where she lived? This was meant as some sort of vacation and you left me out."

"Trust me, Ames, you don't want to be on this vacation!"

Chance and Guerrero, in the meantime, had come to the conclusion they needed to pull a Nephew Otis. With the help of some ammunition they planted a makeshift charge at the door. Running away from the threshold, Chance fired at it, causing it to explode. Its impact blew all of them off their feet and threw them against the far end wall of the chamber.

Which started moving.

And the floor started moving, too.

Thanks to the sand covering the ground they lost their footing almost immediately – as if on a giant chute, they slid toward a hidden chamber underneath the mastaba, the box with the mummy bumping against them during the fall. It didn't help that all that was happening in complete darkness, since all the men's flashlights had gone out.

"Who's banned from watching TV now?", Winston shouted at what he assumed was Guerrero.

They unceremoniously landed on the floor of the hidden chamber. Judging from the sound of it, the wooden box around the mummy's sarcophagus burst into sharp shreds from the impact, but the sarcophagus itself felt intact.

Guerrero switched his flashlight on again just in time to see the chute sliding upwards again. Originally this would have probably sealed the room shut – Tetisheri, meanest queen of the eighteenth dynasty – now it remained half way open, most likely because of the explosion Chance and Guerrero had caused. The mechanism seemed to be damaged. The grave robbers would soon follow them down here.

Oh, great, now they were cornered in an Egyptian tomb below ground.

Guerrero let the flashlight's beam wander around the walls. It revealed enormously beautiful wall paintings. Not to mention quite a few statues, vases, pieces of jewelry lying around… They had found Tetisheri's original resting place.

"This is…", Winston began, open-mouthed.

"Beautiful", Guerrero finished his sentence.

"We won't be able to protect it." Chance's voice in the darkness, void of any humor. "Even if we went out and killed every single grave robber, others would come follow. All of this will soon be scattered all over the world…"

"There must be something we can do…", Winston mumbled. The contrast between the mesmerizing pieces they were looking at and the truth of Chance's words was hard to take. There had to be some kind of way out! Chance always came up with some, granted, crazy plan, but there always in the end _was _a plan that would save the day. This here, all these artifacts, meant to honor this dead women, they belonged here, right here, in this grave, in Egyptian earth.

But this time there was no plan. No matter how they turned, there was no way to protect this treasure, keep it intact for generations to come.

"Let's at least put her where she was supposed to rest, even if it isn't for long", Chance finally said. "And then we'll have fun with the robbers."

Together they lifted the sarcophagus and carried it into the middle of the room, where there was obviously a place reserved for it – embedded into a thick marble block was a shape on the ground that fit the sarcophagus perfectly. They had no problem at all fitting it in.

For a moment, while above their heads the grave robbers were hacking and scraping their way towards them, all three men stood still.

It was only a short moment, though, since a second after they had laid the mummy to rest, the ground began to vibrate again. The far end of the room began to move towards them.

"It'll squash us!", Winston yelled. Chance tentatively jumped toward the broken chute, maybe if he could get up there he could lift his friends, although, with his arm… the wall stopped moving.

And revealed an exit to the outside, right behind it.

Winston, Chance and Guerrero hurried outside. The cool night air embraced them with a fresh breeze and above them a million stars suddenly seemed to sparkle. A split second after Chance had exited the tomb the wall slid back into place, and not only that – another thick wall moved in front of it and judging from the sounds inside the same thing was happening.

Of course at first they just stared at the ancient building that so suddenly had come to life. Then, not keen on another encounter with the grave robbers, they hurried off to get back to their hotel.

… … …

Later that night Guerrero speculated that the moment they had fitted the sarcophagus into the marble block, some sort of mechanism must have been set in motion, not unlike the workings of a contact mine. A system of sandglasses and weights had probably, once initiated, coordinated the whole sealing process.

In the morning, despite all the unrest in the country, what had happened in the necropolis in Thebes made headlines throughout the media. Some "innocent strollers who had wanted to enjoy the atmosphere of the town of the dead" – wow, the grave robbers had come up with an explanation for their presence fast – told reporters how they had witnessed a mastaba all of a sudden starting to seal itself shut.

Experts explained to the general public that the sealing mechanism was so effective, it was not possible anymore to get to the below ground level of the mastaba. Attempts would definitely result in a complete destruction of the building and its contents. Whatever was inside would remain untouched and protected forever.

"Looks like Tetisheri took matters in her own hands", Winston mumbled and this time nobody laughed at him for believing in supernatural shit.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"I really don't need to tell you anything about anatomy, do I? In your field of profession knowing where the smallest impact would lead to the greatest damage is probably regarded as basic…."

"Ex-profession", Chance grumbled. He had known Dr. Grace would give him an earful, but boy, was she on a roll tonight.

"So I guess I don't need to tell you that in 90% of the cases a dislocated shoulder leads to a Bankart lesion, especially when it's put back in the field and not in a hospital, under the watchful eyes of trained personnel, after getting a proper x-ray."

A mischievous smile flitted across Chance's face and Grace smacked him with her stethoscope. "Don't you dare say something along the lines of _If you want to see me shirtless, all you have to do is ask._"

"Ouch! Isn't hurting the patient on purpose against the Hippocratic oath or something?"

"Chance, for heaven's sake, this is serious. I should have seen this prior to the repositioning, to determine if there was any nerve or blood vessel damage. And the x-rays would have been important to make sure there weren't any fractures around the joint." Grace angrily stomped off to the far end of the room.

"But there weren't any, were there?" Putting on his most innocent puppy face and yes, admiring Dr. Grace's well-shaped rear just a little – hey, his shoulder and leg were hurt, other parts of him were perfectly intact – Chance watched her rummaging around in one of her cabinets.

"Guerrero was lucky! And you were, too!" Apparently Grace had found what she was looking for. She retrieved something from the cabinet, stuffed it in the pocket of her coat and walked back to Chance. "But of course, instead of being grateful that you got off the hook so easily with the dislocated shoulder and resting a little, you had nothing better to do than jump right into your next kamikaze operation. That badly healed gash along your leg, it was caused by animal teeth, wasn't it?"

Chance shifted uncomfortably on the surgery couch. Grace was one of the very few women that seemed to be more or less immune to his lopsided smile.

"Tiger? Shark? Chimpanzee?"

"_Chimpanzee?_", Chance scoffed.

"Just because Tarzan had a Cheeta to cuddle with when Jane was too busy doesn't mean those teeth are meant for show. Don't mess with a Chimpanzee, they fight dirty."

Now Chance's smile was real, not simply meant to manipulate. "I'll keep it in mind."

When she kept staring at him, he sighed. "It was a crocodile."

Shaking her head, she pulled out of her pocket what she had retrieved from her cabinet a moment ago. It was a piece of thick white rope.

"This here, Chance, is your supraspinatus muscle. The way it should be, perfectly intact. The supraspinatus might look small in comparison to others, but it is the main agonist muscle for the abduction of the arm at the shoulder joint during the first 10-15 degrees of its arc. It counters the gravitational forces of the downward pull caused by the weight of the upper limb and stabilizes the shoulder joint in general. The supraspinatus is small but incredibly important. Think of it as the Guerrero of the muscle world."

Noticing Chance's eyes turning glassy, Grace reached for a rather large scalpel laid out on one of the sideboards."What you have done to it while fleeing from the crocodile, I guess, is this…" Without warning she started slashing at the piece of rope till it was kept together by one thin thread alone.

"This is your supraspinatus right now. Hanging on for dear life. A feeling you should be able to relate to."

Chance snorted. "Thanks for the visual, doc."

"I'm not getting through to you, am I?"

"I'll spent a day or two on the couch, promise."

"A day or two won't do, Chance. Those marks on your face, they stem from a recent car accident, don't they? Let me guess, you didn't bother to have your head checked for a concussion, right?" She put the rope away. "Your body needs rest. Extensive, long term rest for at least two weeks. No jumping out of high rises, planes, moving cars. No mano-a-mano fist fight with any given number of thugs. No explosions. No poisoning."

"I'll do my best."

"I couldn't care less, but you're seriously risking your life here, Chance."

"Thanks for worrying." Chance hopped off the surgery couch and proceeded to put on his jacket.

"I'm _not _worrying."

Grinning, he exited the treatment room. Dr. Grace, however, kept staring at the empty spot on the couch long after he was gone. Finally she pulled herself together, went to her desk, activated her phone and dialed a number she hated to use.

"Guerrero? This is Grace. We need to talk."

… … …

When Chance came back to the warehouse it was, to his utter surprise, not deserted, as he had expected. Ames was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping at a cup of coffee.

"How are you?", she asked him, noticing very well how gingerly he sat down on the chair opposite from her.

"Glad to be home."

"I can relate to that", she replied, eyes resting on her coffee.

When the silence between them started stretching and Chance apparently wasn't going to ask why she was here and not hanging out with Ken or whatever, she rolled her eyes and sighed. "Ken's having a cookout with a couple of friends. Sounded like fun, but I still have some stuff here, didn't want it to be lying about any longer…"

The silence started stretching again. Ames was just about to throw her empty cup at Chance and somehow force him to talk to her when he finally – finally! – spoke up.

"I'm starving. What about pizza? It's on me."

Ames resisted the urge to bury her face in her hands.

"Pizza would be fine", she mumbled.


	15. R&R

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ R&R ~ **_

"One thing is for sure…" Winston poured himself another cup of coffee. "Grace would have never called Guerrero if this wasn't serious."

"What exactly is it between you two?", Ilsa asked, frowning.

Guerrero raised an eyebrow. _And that's your business exactly why?_, it said.

Ilsa rolled her eyes at him. _You know exactly why. Stop playing games with me. _

Guerrero snorted briefly. _It's you who broke the rules. _

Ilsa looked away, cheeks flushing. She was still ashamed about the Loch Ceiterein incident.

In Guerrero's book, that was a good thing. He had his pride, too. On the other hand – he and Chance had long mended fences. Why did he keep torturing Ilsa?

Because…

That evening, however, he took pity on her.

Yeah well, pity, Guerrero-style.

"Couple of years ago I told Grace I'd kill her if she didn't do exactly what we wanted. Apparently she's still not cool with that."

"You did the kneecap thing with her?", Ames asked, trying not to shudder. Old memories…

"Was more into knives back then."

"We're lucky she's helping us at all." Winston added more sugar to his coffee, still brooding about what to do with Chance.

"You are not still threatening her, are you?" Ilsa's voice climbed an octave higher. Now she was alert.

"A little reminder every now and then never hurt anyone", he replied, unfazed.

_Can you live with that?, _said the shrug of his shoulder.

Winston harrumphed. "Maybe we could get back to the problem at hand? Grace suggested drugging Chance, she said in his case the risks of continuous sedation outweigh the risks of him going back into the field again, but that somehow doesn't seem right."

"I'd be willing to pay him a Caribbean cruise. Ames could accompany him."

Ames looked at Ilsa in surprise. _Is this still about Scotland? _

Ilsa took an audible breath, lowering her gaze again. Ames made a dismissive gesture with her hand. _It's okay. It always was. _He _was the idiot that evening. _

"Chance confined to a ship for two weeks?" Guerrero shook his head. "Ever watched Speed2?"

"What's your idea then, locking him up in your private dungeon?" Secretly, however, Winston had similar concerns.

"I'm just saying…"

Just then the elevator dinged and Chance came back from his walk with Carmine. Seeing his crew assembled for powwow in the kitchen he knew immediately something was up. And judging from the way they looked at him, watched every move as he fed Carmine a treat, it wasn't too difficult to figure out what was going on.

"So, Grace called? Whatever happened to doctor-patient confidentiality?"

"Outweighed by Guerrero-knife confidentiality, I guess…", Winston mumbled. Grace knew very well if anything medical related happened to Chance and Guerrero came to the conclusion she should have seen it coming….

Ilsa decided to take the lead: "A recent study about company holidays indicates…"

"Cut the crap, Ilsa."

"You need rest, Chance. And as your business partner and, technically, your boss…"

Winston stifled a groan. Would she never learn that orders practically guaranteed Chance would do exactly the opposite?

"If you stopped getting on my nerves, that would be a start."

"You're hurt! You can't move properly!" Ilsa looked as if she was reconsidering Guerrero's suggestion regarding Chance's accommodation for the next two weeks. The rest of the team looked as if they were already trying to figure out how to transport him without too much additional damage to his body.

"You're all crazy! I'm fine!" Knowing that Guerrero was never one to shy away from drastic measures and that a worried Winston was no piece of cake to deal with either, Chance cautionary took on a defensive stance.

Things could have gotten ugly, but at this very moment his mobile rang. Chance checked the display, frowned and took the call.

"Philippa?"

The look on his face changed from not-sure-what-to-make-of-this to grave within a split second. They all tensed up.

"...Calm down… One thing after another…"

They couldn't catch what Philippa was saying, but she didn't sound calm at all.

"Is he alright?... Philippa! IS ASH ALRIGHT?"

The answer apparently was "yes" since Chance didn't drop everything and start running towards the elevator.

"We'll sort this out. Winston still has some buddies at the police department. And don't underestimate Ilsa's influence. Don't worry."

Philippa spoke some more, still very rapidly, while Chance's jaw slowly set in that dark, no-nonsense manner that indicated he was seriously angry.

"Yes. I will", he finally finished the conversation. The look on his face bode ill.

"Philippa will bring Ash by in a couple of minutes… Need your help, Winston…"

A minute later they all knew what had happened.

Damn it. The boy was turning into a handful.

When the security system announced the arrival of a visitor they disappeared out of sight. Winston had to make a couple of telephone calls anyway and Ilsa decided to devise a Plan B, should Winston's buddies refuse to help. As she retreated to her office, Guerrero followed her.

"I'd rely on money in this case…", he told her. "Your best chances might lie with…."

Only Ames remained in the kitchen, somehow feeling the urge to stay close to Ash. She knew from firsthand experience how it felt when Chance sat someone down for a heart-to-heart talk and although the boy had, even by her standards, definitely crossed a line here, she pitied him.

He was in for a tough time.


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**A/N: Just a quick reminder: This is NOT a how-to guide on parenting. This chapter does not reflect my opinion on how a misbehaving child should be treated but how I think people would treat a misbehaving child that never had much of a childhood themselves and pretty much grew up on their own. **_

"WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN THINKING?"

The team members had retreated to various places away from the conference room. A little privacy for a heart-to-heart talk. With Chance yelling at his son at that sound level there was no chance not to know what was going on anyway. For Ash's less clearly audible answers they relied on Guerrero's spying equipment.

"I didn't really…" Ash looked at his feet, biting his lower lip.

"Think?", Chance finished his sentence.

"It just happened… we were having fun… It wasn't only my fault!"

"_You _were driving the car of the father of one of your ice-hockey buddies!" Chance was still beside himself.

"The others did, too!" Ash did his best not to break into tears. "We were on that field that belongs to Steve's dad, it seemed safe, Steve said he had taken his Dad's car a million times before!"

"But _you_ were the one behind the steering wheel when the car broke through a fence and dove straight into a ditch!"

"There was this rabbit… it was an accident…"

"You had no business being behind a steering wheel! By breaking through that fence and landing in that ditch you left private property and caused _an accident_ on a public road! At the age of fourteen! Do you have any idea what consequences that might have?"

"Mom said Winston would…"

"NOT to save your butt!" Chance angrily pushed his chair back. He was way too agitated to sit down any longer. "Winston will take care of it, yes. We can't have your name entering the system. But if not for that… Do you have any idea how lucky you were?"

Images of the crash flashed up in Ash's mind – his buddies in the back, laughing with him, urging him on to go faster… the rabbit… the horrible crashing sound as they broke through the fence … the heavy impact as they dove into the ditch nose-first… he could have killed them all…

"I'm sorry."

"You better be. No ice-hockey for a week. No match on Sunday. And you're grounded. Nothing but school and homework. Guerrero's already disconnecting your internet and TV."

Desperately trying not to dwell on what might have happened to his son, had the car not landed in marshy ground and shallow water, thus cushioning the fall, and had the fence been made of something more solid than thin Birchwood, rotten from age, Chance stomped out of the conference room and into the kitchen, where Ames was still sitting at the table.

"Give me a minute, will you?"

Ames, however, had no chance to get out of the room since Ash had decided to follow his father and was blocking the door. "You can't do that! That's unfair! It's an important match on Sunday! And I wanted to go out with Tiffany this afternoon. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get a date with her?"

"Tiffany? Not Pam?", Chance asked, momentarily distracted from the problem at hand.

"Pam was last week."

"For that comment alone you deserve a week of getting grounded", Ames couldn't help but comment.

Now furious, Ash wheeled around to face her. "Who do you think you are? My mother?"

Now, enough was enough. Chance opened a kitchen drawer, quickly grabbed something from the inside, turned around… and handcuffed his son.

"What the…?" Ash stared at him saucer-eyed. Flabbergasted he tugged at the metal rings, making the chain that linked them together jingle. He had never worn cuffs before.

Chance felt nauseated. Goddamn, the things barely fit. But then he thought of the wrecked car again and what might have…

"Proposition: You pick the cuffs, I let you go out with Tiffany."

"I've no idea how to…"

"I know about the time you accidentally locked yourself in the bathroom. The door handle was broken, Ames had to climb in through the window and pick the lock from the inside. You watched her getting you out, didn't you?" He was talking to Ash, but Chance's strict gaze was resting on Ames.

"I didn't really think about what she was doing…if I had known…"

"Well then this is your lesson in thinking about things – without anyone telling you to think about them!" And off Chance stomped, out of the kitchen, out of the office, up on the roof.

Ash, tugging at the cuffs more forcefully now, turned to Ames, still sitting at the kitchen table.

"Don't look at me. I'm not your mom." With a smug smile and a shrug of her shoulders, Ames exited the room.

… … …

Chance spent quite a while on the roof. The thought of how close he had gotten today to losing Ash kept haunting him. And it was his fault! _His_ genes that caused Ash to get up to that kind of dangerous nonsense. The things he had done at fourteen…

"Juliet was no angel either", Philippa had told him after Ash had stupidly revealed himself to Shakeema and Chance had voiced his concerns to her. "If at all, you're both to blame. But Ash's got brains. He knew better than to act against explicit orders and did nevertheless. That was a conscious decision, not genetics. He's a teenager, testing his boundaries. Don't beat yourself up over this."

His mobile startled Chance from his thoughts. It was the one reserved for clients calling and yes, he didn't recognize the number on the display. A split second before he could take the call, however, it stopped signaling. "Call diverted", said the display. Damn it, Guerrero must have intercepted it!

Fuming, Chance went back into the office where the rest of the team was already gathering in the conference room.

"You're not trying to shut me out from a job, are you? Is this still about this R&R thing? Seriously?"

"You're not going to work on this one, bro." The tone of Guerrero's voice left no room for misinterpretation.

"And what do you want to do? Lock me up in your private dungeon?"

"The option has been discussed, yes", Ilsa took over the conversation. "But in the end we decided for a more …subtle… solution." She made a waving gesture with her hand and in walked Ash, still handcuffed.

"A doctor said you need rest, otherwise you're risking your life. Who's not thinking now?"

Ash's mobile started ringing. He checked the display. "It's Tiffany." The puppy face pleading look he threw his father made both Ames and Ilsa roll their eyes. Damn, the boy was a chip off the old block! All Chance did, however, was point at the handcuffs, still intact around his child's wrist. Grumbling, Ash left the room to inform Tiffany he'd have to cancel their date.

"Involving _him_, that was low", Chance huffed.

"He's your son, Chance. It's your responsibility to teach him right from wrong. Or do you want the Old Man to sub for you?"

"That, Winston, was even lower."

Guerrero, however, nodded briefly in appreciation.

"The new case is about a violinist whose violin was stolen", Ilsa explained. "Especially violin players grow very attached to their instrument, he doesn't simply want a new one, he wants his old one back. How hard can that be? If all else fails, we'll pay ransom for it."

The rest of the team minus Chance flinched, more or less obviously, at the "how hard can it be"-part. Chance however, broke into a very non-genuine smile.

"Yes, Ilsa, how hard can it be? I'm sure it'll be a walk in the park."


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Their new client was a member of the Vienna State Opera's orchestra, the very orchestra that served as a recruitment pool for the world famous Vienna Philharmonic. It was every classical musician's dream to be chosen for that elite group and only a couple of days before their client's instrument was stolen he had been informed that he had been shortlisted for a membership.

"That angle could be worth a look at", Chance remarked as Winston stomped past him while he was lying on his sofa, watching TV. "Sounds like someone got jealous or felt overlooked."

"Thanks, Sherlock, now that you say it… Guerrero is already looking at the orchestra members. Probably by now working on how to torture the answer from the shadier ones. Heard him talking about wanting to hire a couple of banjo players… Do you really think we can't pull this off without you? We don't need you riding in on a white horse all the time. Keep that shining armor in the closet for once and see that your sorry ass remains on that sofa. We need you healthy."

Winston paused, looking around. "You really haven't seen my cell, have you? I could swear I had it with me yesterday evening…"

"No idea."

Chance looked him directly in the eyes, blue eyes and shar pei puppy wrinkles on his forehead claiming total innocence.

Yeah, right.

"Chance, you didn't steal my phone because you're angry we're leaving without you? How old are you, five?"

Guerrero's voice from downstairs nipped the looming confrontation in the bud. "Dude! Got it! Right next to the pot cheese Ilsa bought for you!"

"If you had adhered to your diet sheet this morning instead of picking a fight with Guerrero over the last bacon, you'd have found it right away", Chance pointed out, grinning.

"Very funny."

"_We _are going to Vienna and retrieve a stolen violin which, judging from experience, will probably involve a car chase and/or a minor explosion, while _you_ are stuck at the office, babysitting a sulking teenager", Ilsa pointed out, appearing in the doorway, indicating to Winston that they had to hurry to the airport. The jet wouldn't get clearance forever. "How funny is that?"

Grumbling, Chance grabbed the remote and changed the program.

… … …

It was still early in the morning, but Ash was up and about, too. He came sneaking out of his room shortly after the team had finally left. Chance could hear him rummaging in the kitchen - the opening and closing of the fridge, then various drawers… the popping sound of the toaster… the clinking of glasses as he retrieved a clean one from the dish washer… All accompanied by a soft metallic jingle Chance didn't like at all. He called his son upstairs.

"Want me to take them off?", he asked, nodding at the cuffs.

"I can do this", Ash replied tersely. Judging from his bloodshot eyes he hadn't had much sleep last night. "No need to help me."

Chance sighed. Today seemed to be World Leave Me Alone Day. He was bored already. "Let me at least check your wrists. The cuffs don't fit properly and…"

"Stop pampering me, I'm no baby!" Ash took a step back, apparently fiercely determined to deal with this on his own.

"Show me your wrists!"

"Or what?"

"Guerrero has a metal ring inserted on the floor in the lobby underneath the couch, ever wondered what it's for?"

"Empty threat!"

Chance was on the verge of teaching Ash just how empty any threats were he was making when his cell phone rang. Now _that_ number on the display he recognized immediately. "Hey, Harry."

Harry wasn't exactly coherent in his narration of the latest trouble he had gotten himself into, but enough for Chance to get an idea where he was being held captive. "Be there in thirty. Hang in", he told him, cut the connection, jumped off the couch, headed for the stairs… and halted. His doorway was blocked by Ash.

"Where do you think you're going?", his son scowled at him.

"That was a Uncle Harry. He needs bailing out, fast."

"You're supposed to rest."

Chance rolled his eyes. "It's a life and death matter, Ash, this can't wait."

"And you and your health, that isn't a life and death matter? Guerrero showed me a piece of cut rope."

Ah, trust Guerrero to make sure his explanations on Chance's health would leave a proper impact on the boy. Quite a compliment for Grace, actually, that he regarded a repeat performance of her little rope trick as useful.

"Harry will die if I don't help him. In my line of work there's no such thing as vacation close-down."

For a moment Ash looked as if he was stepping out of the way. He was biting his lip, unsure what to do. His father's work was serious, he was well aware of that… And he _knew_ Harry... liked him... he was out there needing help, now…. But what if…? Ash suddenly pulled himself up to his full height and blocked the doorway even more. Throwing his father a smug look, he took out his mobile.

"Grandpa? I need your help."

… … …

Chance heard them arrive long before the elevator dinged. Baptiste was cursing loud enough to be heard on Bay Bridge. Smiling to himself, he occupied the couch in the lobby where he'd have a better view.

Baptiste was the first one to step out of the elevator. "Where's the shower?", he thundered. He was covered completely in what looked like blue slime.

"How was I supposed to know…?" Harry came stumbling after him, equally slimed. Joubert brought up the rear, not a hint of blue substance on him. Carmine, who had been lying at Chance's feet, jumped to the floor and approached Baptiste, sniffing at him and making munching sounds.

"Where did you find him, smurf village?", Chance asked from the couch, propped up against a couple of Ilsa's Italian designer pillows.

"SHOWER!", Baptiste demanded. Carmine licked tentatively at his left leg, obviously liked what he tasted and tried to get more. A very strict look from Baptiste, however, stopped him. His abilities as a watchdog were probably lousy, but he did have a well-developed survival instinct.

Harry, however, looked a lot less threatening…

Chance pointed in the direction of the office's showering facility and allowed Harry with a nod to go ahead and use his own in the mezzanine part of the office.

Feeling privileged, Harry headed towards the stairs to Chance's living-quarters. One foot on the first step, however, he was tackled and brought to the floor by Carmine. Panting enthusiastically, the dog planted its big paws on his shoulders.

"Flavored food coloring", Joubert explained. "Don't ask why they've got it all over them."

It was really astonishing how insistent that dog could get when food was on the line…

"It's Harry, no need to", Chance replied.

"Carmine, drop!" Ash came running from the kitchen. Now, he could have told Carmine to get up and do a can-can on his hind legs, it would have had the same effect, so he ended up physically pulling the dog away from his father's client.

"How come my grandson is handcuffed?", Joubert asked, frowning.

Chance sighed and told him the story of the sunken car as Harry, finally freed from Carmine's weight, hurried up the stairs.

"I made a mistake. I'm sorry. But no date with Tiffany, handcuffs, getting grounded for a week _and_ no game on Sunday, don't you think that's a bit of an overkill?" Ash wiped his now blue and slimy hands on his jeans, overemphasizing how the cuffs were impeding him.

"If it had been up to me, you would have spent the week locked up in the cellar." Joubert's voice had suddenly turned so icy-cold, it made Ash take a step backwards. From one moment to the next his grandfather's whole demeanor had completely changed. He now looked like a granite block of barely contained anger.

Chance knew that side of the Old Man only too well, but for Ash this was the first time and he was shocked.

"Stupid. Plain stupid. Attracting the cops' attention. Risking your life. For nothing but showing off", Joubert snarled.

"I'm sorry, I didn't…"

The Old Man cut him off: "You never know which mistake will be your last."

Ash's knees grew weak, tears shot into his eyes. His grandfather's voice seemed to cut straight through him, like a hot knife through butter. He started shaking.

"And what's even worse, you let your team down. They need you on Sunday, but you're letting them down, for nothing but idiocy."

Now Chance jumped up from the sofa. The sudden movement didn't go unpunished as a sharp pain shot all along his arm right down his spine, but it didn't matter. "That's enough", he told Joubert, staring daggers at him. Then he turned to Ash, who had turned pale as a ghost.

"Let me remove those stupid cuffs."

Ash, however, took another step back. "I can do this", he uttered, barely audible, wheeled around and dashed up the stairs.

"Sometimes you got to hurt them to teach them. He won't make that mistake again." Completely unfazed by Chance's murderous glare, Joubert dropped himself into one of the armchairs in the lobby. "I think we've got a case to discuss", he smirked, knowing full well that the "won't make that mistake again" was making Chance think. He wanted his boy safe. "Unless of course you want to do mankind a favor. In that case I suggest we cut your friend loose and let the hired guns that had chased him to that food factory finish their job."

Carmine started licking at the blue spot Harry had left on the floor.


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Without Harry's presence, discussing the case was pretty senseless. Granted, he most likely had no idea why anybody would want to kill him, but usually it could be deduced from his summary of events.

Harry, however, was taking his time in Chance's bathroom. "Oh, I bet this artificial stuff causes allergies! There's this spot on my backside, left buttock, can't see it, but…", he complained loudly from underneath the shower.

"You _would _do mankind a favor…" Joubert repeated, leaning back in the armchair.

Chance, still fuming, decided to make the best out of the situation. "Get me some juice from the kitchen, will you?", he asked, settling back on the couch with a pained groan.

"There's water on the table." The Old Man nodded in the direction of the bottle of mineral water that was standing within Chance's arm's reach.

"No water. Juice. Sick people need lots of vitamins. You want me to develop a deficiency?"

"You're not sick, just a little banged up. And this is not the Terra Nova Expedition. You won't die of scurvy anytime soon." Joubert got up and walked to the kitchen.

"Apple juice, if you don't mind. The orange stuff gives me heart burn", Chance called after him.

Baptiste, dressed in nothing but sweatpants Ilsa once had acquired for clients in need, came back from the office's showering facility – just in time to see Chance make a strange bend over maneuver on the couch.

Seeing Baptiste, Chance quickly dropped backwards, winced and rubbed his shoulder. A telephone began to ring, first upstairs in Chance's living-room, then it was redirected to Chance's phone on the coffee table.

"Uh, could you get that for me?" Chance looked at Baptiste, blue eyes sparkling.

"Get it yourself, matey."

"Can't reach it." Chance made a show of trying to get to the phone on the far end of the table top, wincing a little more, grasping at thin air.

"Did you put it there on purpose?" Baptiste asked.

"Why would I do that?" Chance slightly tilted his head and smiled.

"That girlie shit doesn't work on me, Junior." Baptiste threw the phone into Chance's lap, just in time to see Joubert coming back from the kitchen with a glass of orange juice.

"You'll drink this."

Grinning, Chance checked the caller ID and answered the phone: "Hello, Ilsa."

He listened for a moment, then: "So, you'd like to know how to build a homemade plastic bomb just for the heck of it? Curiosity, hm? And it's not that you're knee-deep in trouble and could use a helping hand?"

Apparently the call was abruptly ended. Chance took a sip from his orange juice, looked at his watch – the phone rang again. "Yes, Ilsa?" He broke into a broad grin, listened for a moment again, then: "I'm notsmirking. Why should I smirk? Because you thought you could pull this off without me and now look at you, making a long distance-call to…"

The call was abruptly ended again.

Chance drank some more orange juice.

The phone rang for the third time. This time, however, Baptiste grabbed it from his hand, took off with it and put some distance between himself and Chance before he answered it.

Chance was just about to chase after him when a loud "tsk" from Joubert stopped him. "You're sick, remember?"

"Wallpaper paste will work fine, sweetheart. All you've got to do is increase the sodium hydroxide part", Baptiste instructed Ilsa.

Just then Harry came walking down the stairs, wrapped in nothing but Chance's bathrobe.

"Favor… mankind…" Joubert prompted again, but Chance motioned Harry to sit down. Baptiste, having ended the call, came back to them, but when he saw Harry and his attire, he preferred standing.

"I have no idea why they are after me. Seriously. There's nothing, absolutely nothing I've done wrong this time. No messed up adultery case, no cherry cocktail accidentally poured over mobster's wife's favorite white silk dress… Nelly and I spent most of the week out on the farm. I'll be going to Asia next week for a couple of days, to see my uncle, and we wanted to spend some time together before I was leaving. Only came back for the weekend, buddy of mine had a stag party."

"Stag party, hm?" Chance rubbed his forehead. "Let me guess, you woke up in the morning and couldn't remember a thing.

"Well, it was a stag party. Wild night, you know, just like mine, where I punched Guerrero in the face."

Baptiste and Joubert both looked at him in what passed as amused (and doubtful) astonishment. "_You _hit Guerrero?"

"He sported a black eye in the morning and I had his blood all over my jacket." Harry proudly puffed his chest up. Baptiste and Joubert both frowned for a moment, then exchanged knowing glances.

Behind Harry's back Chance threw an almost pleading look at the two men. _Don't tell him…_

Both smirked at him like sharks.

"Anything unusual when you woke up in the morning?", he addressed Harry loudly, trying to divert his attention.

"Nothing but that sore spot on my backside that got worse when it got in contact with that food coloring. It's been bothering me ever since the stag night. I can't see it, tried to in the mirror but slipped and fell and Nelly is still at the farm. Maybe one of you could take a look?"

Chance opened his mouth, but Joubert cut him off before he could say anything. "Do you really think you're too sick to perform this task for your friend?" The veiled threat of telling Harry the truth about him knocking out Guerrero was unmistakable.

Chance stared at him defiantly, while Joubert and Baptiste shared a smug smile.

"What's going on?", Harry asked, slightly confused.

"Nothing, Harry. Just turn around, I'll lift the robe myself." And so Chance did. He took a look at Harry's naked butt.

"There's actually something…."

"I've done it! I picked the…" Ash, who had come down the stairs impressively quietly, stopped in mid-sentence and froze to the spot on the last step, staring wide-eyed at his father.

And Uncle Harry.

"What?" Harry shrugged his shoulders. "We're all guys here, aren't we? I've got some strange rash and asked your father to take a look."

"You spend too much time at the farm." Chance straightened himself up.

"I'll… go back to my room…" Ash quickly ascended the stairs again. Before anyone could ask him to take a look and give his opinion.

"You can watch TV if you want to!", Chance yelled after him.

The loud clap of Ash's door was the only answer he got.

Both Joubert and Baptiste broke into thunderous laughter.

Chance rubbed his forehead. _One hundred things you never thought you'd have to explain to your children…Number 47. _


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"Yeah, thank you very much! I felt sore for days and you are making fun of it!" Harry wrapped himself into the bathrobe again.

Both Baptiste and Chance frowned at the same time. Joubert stopped laughing, too. There was something about Harry's word choice. They should have noticed before…

"Say it again", Chance told him.

"You are making fun of me! I don't want to sound like a whiner, but that's totally unfair! Why always me?"

"No, not that part, before that." Chance knitted his brows in concentration. "You said you feel _sore_. That's not typical for a rash. Let me see it again."

Harry presented his backside to Chance one more time.

"That's not a rash."

He turned to Baptiste and Joubert. "Look at it."

"If that's your idea of payback, Junior…"

But they both knew Chance well enough to see that he was serious. So they looked…

"Punctures…", Baptiste stated. "Barely visible."

"Punctures?" Harry's voice climbed an octave. "Someone injected me with something? Oh God, hopefully not sodium thiopental! There are some secrets, dark secrets that I keep, if they ever came out…"

"I think the world's safe for now, Harry", Chance placated him. "That kind of punctures go together with a freshly done tattoo."

Now Harry turned around and looked at Chance with a "pull the other one, it's got bells on"-expression on his face. "You know me, I don't want to be a wiseass or anything, but isn't the whole point of a tattoo that it's visible?"

Making a curt waving gesture with his hand, Chance motioned the others to follow him into the elevator.

"We're not going down to the loading bay, are we?" Harry wrapped the bathrobe closer around him. "I'm practically nude and although I join into the fertility dance ritual at the farm every now and then…"

"HARRY", the other three all yelled together. "TOO MUCH INFORMATION!"

… … …

Down in the loading bay, where Guerrero kept the less incriminating parts of his equipment, Chance told Harry to remove the bathrobe one more time.

"But it's cold here and I have this hemorrhoids problem…"

"What did we say about too much information?"

Chance switched all lights in the bay off and turned on the black light torch he and Guerrero had needed for that job in Idaho a couple of years ago. Black light lamps emit ultraviolet radiation in the long-wave range. It's invisible, but many substances display a colored glow when they're exposed to it.

Such as Harry's backside now.

Thin lines in fluorescent white light appeared on the skin of his left buttock – a complex geographical map of some place in a desert. Whoever had done this had made an effort to note down all sorts of physical land features.

And an "x" right in the middle of it.

"So what is this now, Treasure Island 2.0?"

Both Chance and Baptiste turned around and looked at Joubert with raised eyebrows.

"What? Half of the job consists of research on the internet nowadays. _And _I've got a teenage grandson. You think I don't know the lingo?"

"Don't you recognize it?", Baptiste asked.

Joubert frowned and stepped a little closer.

"Uh, guys, I know I complained because nobody wanted to take a look, but you've made up for it now, really."

Completely ignoring Harry, Joubert crouched and squinted his eyes. "The location of the secret research center where the agency sent us a couple of years ago…"

"Guys…the cold is really taking a toll on me… "

Again, Harry was completely ignored.

"Great way to transport classified information out of the country…", Joubert mused.

"You were planning to travel to Asia, Harry, weren't you?" Chance asked. The Old Man, however was already a step further.

"…tattoo it on an idiot's posterior in invisible ink, let him stumble through customs – fortune favors fools…"

"You realize I'm listening, don't you?"

"…kidnap him at the airport and make short work of him. The tattoo can be easily cut out."

Harry turned pale.

"They must have used a tattoo artist from the Bay area, nothing else fits with the timeline. Not many people have the skills to work this precisely with UV ink. It's thinner, the tattoo must be wiped and checked under a black light torch frequently during the session. Should narrow it down." Chance switched the lights in the loading bay on again. As he reached for the switch, he involuntarily flinched. His shoulder….

"We're going to take Harry and check the tattoo studios. You are going to stay here", the Old Man decided.

Naturally, Chance didn't agree. "Do I have no say in the matter?"

"Consider yourself grounded."

"You don't really think you can…"

Baptiste stepped behind Chance with one swift motion in a clearly aggressive manner. Chance's instincts kicked in immediately, but a one hundred percent fit Baptiste against a pretty banged up Chance?

… … …

"Now, how does that feel?", Ash asked his father ten minutes later, as he found him securely chained to the metal ring underneath the couch in the lobby while Joubert and Baptiste were riding downstairs in the elevator with Harry to go and seek out the tattooist. The chain was just long enough so that Chance could lie on the sofa, head resting on a pillow.

"I was just about letting you play on Sunday after all!", Chance yelled at him and rolled onto his side, sulking.

"Very grown-up, dad!", Ash yelled back and stomped up the stairs.

Just then the telephone rang. Baptiste had made sure Chance would reach it. He had placed it underneath the pillow.

"Ilsa…"

Chance's mood perked up. Maybe she would tell him they needed him to come to Vienna after all…

"Less than two hours ago you asked for instructions on how to build a homemade bomb and now you're telling me you're already on your way home? You found the violin? This fast?"

"It's called _teamwork_, Chance. A well-concerted _group_ effort. And no silly stunts." Unconsciously, Ilsa played with a lock of her hair, still moist from the Danube. Ames, who had helped hauling Ilsa onto the excursion ship's deck, threw her an amused glance.

_It wasn't a _silly _stunt_, Ilsa's facial expression replied.

In San Francisco, Chance cut the connection. Jeez, what a day. Nothing but good news. Still sulking, he curled into a ball and fell asleep.

When he woke up again, it was in the middle of the night and the damn phone was ringing again. With his kind of luck today, it was Ilsa once more, informing him that they had solved another case between getting out of the jet and into a taxi.

It wasn't Ilsa.

"Hey matey. Consider this a collect call."

The second Chance hung up the phone he called his son. "ASH!"

It was in the middle of the night, but Ash had a light sleep and he had already been woken by the phone's ringing.

"Baptiste gave you the keys to the chain's lock, didn't he?"

Ash, although safely out of Chance's reach, took a step back.

"They're all in grave danger, Ash. The tattooist that made the tattoo on Harry's buttock… they found him but he is dead… and the people who made him do the tattoo were waiting for someone to come looking for him... Harry and the others got away, but barely. I need to…"

"YOU'RE HURT!"

"I have to go!" Chance hesitated for a moment, then: "It's your grandfather's life on the line, doesn't that mean anything to you?"

Ash opened his mouth to yell back, something along the line of "in this state you won't be of help to anyone", but stopped before uttering anything. Chance could see he was having an idea.

Scary moment, considering what solutions the boy had come up with lately.

"Your grandfather and Baptiste need help themselves now. You can't call them", he pointed out.

"I'm not going to call anyone. _You're _going to call." Ash punched in a number and handed the phone to his father. All he needed to do was activate it.

"_Ilsa's _number? You can't be serious!"


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"They're closing in on us, aren't they? Oh God, this is one of the situations my low blood sugar level becomes really problematic." Harry looked around, but this was a perfume shop, no food lying around.

"If you don't shut up immediately, a low blood level in general will become problematic for you, matey." Baptiste was watching the back entrance of their hideout. So far no movement outside, no signs of someone attempting forced entry.

But they were there.

"Why?" Harry lowered his voice. "Do you think they're already close enough to hear us?"

"No, but I'm close enough to kill you."

"You sound just like Guerrero. What is it with you guys that you're always so rude? Well, I get it, it's your men's man way of displaying affection…"

Baptiste's fist shot forward without warning, knocking Harry out cold with one single hit.

"About time", Joubert muttered as he took cover behind the counter where Baptiste and Harry were already hiding.

"Junior said he'd come."

"Don't know of how much help he'll be. There's a reason his crew made him temp housecat."

Baptiste nodded. "Would be better if we got out of here on our own. Don't see how, though."

"Maybe a Danish Tart…"

"For a Danish Tart you need outside help, how are we supposed to…"

Joubert interrupted Baptiste and pointed at one of the shop windows. Someone was sending Morse code with a flashlight.

_What about Danish Tart, dudes? _

Guerrero.

Simultaneously, scraping in the ventilation shaft caught their attention. "I bet they don't realize what this oil stuff does to my skin", Ames complained as she loosened the shaft's grill and climbed into the shop.

"Wow, Wagner's Perfumery Emporium. I've always wanted to go here. They've got all this imported stuff…"

"That's Guerrero's idea of pulling off a Danish Tart? Sending a girl in underwear? You're not even armed!" Baptiste shook his head. This fighting-the-good-fight-thing apparently affected the brain cells.

"I _am_ armed!"

Both men gave her appearance questioning looks.

"Darling, there's no place where you could have possibly hidden…"

Ames reached into her bra and the Old Man stopped talking. He was definitely not _that _old. It didn't help that the oil left a trace on her skin.

"A transponder?", Baptiste asked, eyeing the small silvery object – and, yes, its hiding place, too – with approval.

"We'll sent a bomb attached to a skateboard down the street, right between the thugs. The signal will be triangulated with a second signal from the van, it'll ignite the detonator very precisely. All you two have to do is turn your cell phones off, this transponder thingy is rather sensitive to radio waves."

Joubert and Baptiste got ready to carry Harry out of the shop once the bomb would create a distraction. The van with Ilsa and Winston would pick them up outside. Hands slippery, Ames sent Guerrero a text message, then turned her own cell phone off and activated the transponder. Now it would only be a matter of seconds…

They could make out movement outside.

Something was rolling down the street.

It came closer, was heading straight towards where they guessed the thugs were hiding…two more seconds and it would be in the perfect position….

_Night fever, night fever._

_We know how to do it._

_Gimme that night fever, night fever._

_We know how to show it._

Harry's cell phone rang.

Ames, Joubert and Baptiste just had time to throw themselves flat to the ground, dropping Harry rather unceremoniously in the process, before the bomb on the skateboard exploded right outside the entrance. The impact shook the whole shop, display cabinets sprang open, hundreds of perfume bottles crashed to the ground, drenching them in all sorts of scents.

"Uh, was that my phone?", Harry asked dizzily, slowly becoming coherent again.

Outside, gunshots were being fired. "Time for Plan B!", Joubert shouted and threw Ames a gun. It slipped from her oily hands, fell to the ground, somehow the safety catch got released, the gun fired. A bullet barely missed Baptiste's neck.

"Uh, sorry…"

"Plan C", Joubert groaned. "You and Harry to the backdoor, Baptiste and I try and give you cover." Ames grabbed Harry's arm and started dragging him towards the back. Just then a second explosion shook the ground, blew a giant hole into the wall at the far end of the store and set the building on fire. In the distance police sirens started to wail.

"Don't tell me Guerrero forgot perfumes are highly inflammable – we can't go through there!", Baptiste yelled.

"His way of saying we should go to the back!", Ames yelled.

They had no time to debate whether this assumption was correct or not. Like a brightly red wave the flames came rolling towards them, causing all bottles that had remained intact to explode, one after another, a long, long sequence of tiny detonations.

They raced outside and almost ran into the van, coming to a stop right in front of them with screeching tires.

"Ilsa, I swear it was not my idea and nobody could know the first bomb would explode too early…", Winston was yelling over the noise of the explosions in the shop.

"We just lay a whole street in ashes! How the hell am I supposed to explain that to Connie and the board?"

"I'm sure you'll come up with something. You're good at that", Guerrero told her from the back as he helped the others in.

Ilsa felt the urge to throw something at him.

… … …

Meanwhile at the office Chance had an unexpected visitor. "Didn't know you were doing house calls", Chance addressed Grace with a playful smile. "And so early in the morning."

"Only in cases where the patient is chained to something solid", she replied. "I had an emergency in the vicinity and thought I'd stop by."

Judging from her clothes, make-up and hairdo, Chance guessed more in the direction of a date gone wrong, probably cancelled at the last minute, followed by a night of anger and finally the decision to try it elsewhere… He felt sorry for her. She was a beautiful woman.

"How did you know they'd chain me?"

"Either that or permanent sedation. Don't see how else to get you to take a break. I figured in both cases you could need a medical check-up." She placed her bag on the coffee table and sat down right next to it, crossing her rather long, slender legs. Yes, she was definitely looking for company. And it would be so easy… Comforting her…

"There was a time when you would have happily let me rot in peace."

"You've come by more often lately, after years of just occasional visits. I got a chance to actually form an opinion on you. You truly have changed your ways." She inched closer to him.

"I always knew you stood up for me when Joubert and Guerrero were planning to kill me."

Chance coughed uneasily. "That's ancient history, doc."

Suddenly Carmine jumped up and practically fled the room. The elevator dinged and out stepped the whole crew – accompanied by an almost visible cloud of all sorts of flowery scents.

The men were busy arguing over who'd get to use the showers first, with Winston telling Harry repeatedly that it would be a lot wiser if he shut up – _immediately_. The women, however, saw Dr. Grace, and although she had moved away from Chance rather quickly it took them a single look to decipher what she had been up to.

How much Chance had been willing to participate, however, was harder to tell. At least he was still fully clothed.

"Dr. Grace", Ilsa greeted her friendly. "What a wonderful coincidence! We need your skills – you are familiar with the procedure of removing a tattoo, aren't you? I know it's on short notice, but…"

Assisted by Ames, Ilsa led Dr. Grace and Harry back into the elevator. Guerrero had suggested to have the removal of the tattoo filmed and then published, on YouTube and the likes. Since it was a black light tattoo nobody would see the secret map, but his pursuers would see the evidence that Harry wasn't carrying it anymore and thus, with a little luck – and who had more luck than Harry? – would refrain from chasing him.

Chance fell back onto the sofa. Jeez, and this was supposed to be _restful _for him?


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"Okay, Agent Barnes, just for good measure, let us sum this up one more time." The section chief was not amused. Not at all.

"Four deceased SWAT team members." He took a deep breath. The SWAT team leader had demanded Emma's head in a basket.

"Two dead civilians." Another deep breath. The morning in the mayor's office, "discussing" the course of the operation with him, had brought him ten years closer to a heart attack.

"An escaped drug lord." The local drug unit, which had worked on pinning that bastard for half a year and which had been forced out of the investigation by the FBI, had been in uproar for a week. They had filed an official complaint and obstructed all kinds of cooperation ever since. And damn it, those cops could be obstructive.

A blue wall of resistance.

"A thirteen year old boy…DOA. And NO weapon." The uproar of the drug unit had been nothing against the uproar of the civil rights organizations. Headlines for days…

"And five dead thugs…" The section chief slammed his hands on his desk. Nobody felt really sorry about those, but the relatives were already working on putting together a lawsuit.

"This time, Agent Barnes, you've definitely outdone yourself. I should have known after the Russian embassy debacle, but no, I gave you a second chance. Then this fishy thing in South America where you, in hindsight, didn't exactly cut a fine figure either. And now THIS!" He halted his breath, counted to ten, released it.

"It's over Emma. This is it. Definitely."

He sat back down, trying to do that Tibetan muscle relaxation exercise his doctor had recommended him.

"There's no place in the Bureau for you anymore."

Emma had seen it coming. She had tried to come up with a counter measure, wrecked her brain over it… all through the funerals of the SWAT team members… while apologizing to the civil rights group… and finally, while getting her third ticket of the day by a very hostile cop, she had had a light bulb moment.

It was a risky plan, but desperate times required desperate measures, didn't they?

"I can tell you who is responsible for the scandal that brought down the Department of Health scientist a couple of weeks ago", she said. "_And_ I know where to find him. Interested?"

… … …

Mendelssohn, violin concerto opus sixty something (Guerrero had told him the precise number, but it had slipped his mind again) wasn't exactly Winston's style of music, but their Viennese client had given him a recording he claimed "very special". He was playing his violin on it. Jeez, had he been happy to get that thing back.

After the ordeal with the homemade bomb that almost cost Ilsa a limb she had been ready to buy him a Stradivari if necessary, but he had insisted on his Tongliogli. Apparently violinists entered into some sort of love affair with their instruments and thus they couldn't simply be replaced.

Ah well, it did sound nice and it somehow felt good, listening to the music and thinking that they had helped giving the musician the chance to produce many more recordings like this.

Winston's telephone rang. Michele's number. She had called quite often lately.

"I never knew you liked classical music", she said, commenting on the concerto she could hear in the background.

"Yeah, he was quite a genius, that Meddlesome, wasn't he?" Winston couldn't help but showing off.

Michele started laughing, that joyful, pearling laugh he hadn't heard in a long time. "If you're so into the classics now, maybe you'd like to accompany me to D'Allano's this weekend? They always hire students from the conservatory to provide background music for really good food. What do you think?"

Of course he thought it was a great idea. And for the first hour or so after her call he was very happy. But then he started thinking…

… … …

When Dr. Grace came back into her apartment in the early afternoon, she knew immediately somebody had been there. Years of being on the run from a stalker had enhanced her senses and ingrained a certain watchfulness into her system, even though the stalker was long dead.

With the knife stabbed into her kitchen table top (thank God he had spared the antique walnut desk she had inherited from her aunt) it was not hard to guess who had been here. Shivering, she walked over to read the note he had fixed with the blade.

The message was loud and clear.

_Chance needs a competent doc, not more women trouble. Back off and do your job. _

_G._

Bastard. 

… … …

Ash made a hasty backcheck. Another player tried to clip him and for a moment it looked as if he was losing balance, taking his opponent down with him, who quickly rushed out of the way.

Which was apparently what Ash had been waiting for.

He was suddenly racing full force again, managing to interrupt a drop back, stealing the puck.

"A Deke. Whoa", Philippa said.

"Still not sure this is the right thing", Chance mused, only half watching.

"If it's not, we're both to blame. We decided together to lift his restrictions. Sleeping in handcuffs and getting dressed down by his grandfather, I think that's punishment enough." She howled in triumph as Ash scored another goal.

"The boy is good", a man with a heavy accent commented, a few rows up from where Chance and Philippa were sitting. "What do you think, Innokentij?"

"Potential", the other man growled. "Lots of potential."

"So, are we going to grab him for training? We won't repeat Bogdan's mistakes."

Innokentij shook his head. "No. No force this time. We need to be patient with this one. An opportunity will present itself. Trust me."

The game ended with Ash's team winning. The boys celebrated on the ice for a moment, then retreated to the locker. The people in attendance quickly filed out and soon the rink was deserted.

Except for Philippa and Chance, that is. They were still sitting in silence, Chance deep in thought.

"Nobody said it would be easy", Philippa finally stated.

"What if we're doing it wrong? How do I know the way I'm treating him is right?" Chance had voiced this to Guerrero once, after a rather long night over a couple of glasses of Scotch. To his big surprise, Philippa replied with exactly the same sentence his friend had chosen back then.

"All you can do is do your best."

"Mom, Dad!" Ash, now wearing a lot less protective clothing, but still on skates, called out to them from the middle of the ice.

"I asked the coach!" He was holding up two pairs of skates.

"Ah, no", Chance declined, rocking back in his seat.

"Come on, don't be such a spoilsport." Philippa grabbed him by the arm and dragged him onto his feet. A moment later he was shakily skidding over the ice, holding on to Philippa for dear life, getting lectured by his son on balance and position of legs.

"And doing your best seems to be working fine, doesn't it?", Philippa whispered as she helped him up after falling flat on his ass for what felt like the hundredth time.

Behind them Ash was practically toppling over from laughter and sheer happiness.


	22. high rise

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ high rise ~ **_

"I really don't see why", Ames grumbled and crossed her arms. "I've been planning this movie night with Ken for ages. It's what roommates do, you know? Homemade popcorn and salt sticks, a bit of beverage… Ken even let me choose the videos! And now you're telling me I have to work." She was positively pouting.

"There's a client's life on the line", Chance said unsmilingly. "You want to risk it for popcorn with Kermit?"

"His name is _Ken_", Ames hissed back. "And we already have tons of soil samples, two eye witnesses and an autopsy report, all clear as day showing that CasGrov is emitting dangerous substances into air and water. Why break into their office, crack their safe, risk getting caught, only to prove the same thing one more time? I just don't see it."

"They keep documents there that show that, at least since 2010, they knew how dangerous the substances were. A secret study CasGrov's board of directors first commissioned, then swept under the carpet. Knowing how long they knew what they were doing, that's important if the victims want to put together a lawsuit. It greatly influences the amount of compensation money."

"Why don't _you_ break in if it's so important?" Ames still wasn't convinced and Chance's overly didactic tone irked her.

"Last week you wanted to chain me up in Guerrero's dungeon for two weeks, now you expect me to break into a high rise?" Chance paused for a moment. "And aside from that I don't think I'll fit through the ventilation shaft…"

Oh, austere expression or not, now he was definitely trying to hide a smirk. Ames, however, was too busy exploding to notice.

"NO. Not another underwear & oil job!"

"Uh, dude, the building was erected three years ago, following the revised building code. Unless we manage to shrink her, she won't fit through the shaft." Guerrero showed them an extract from the building's construction permit.

Ames stuck her tongue out at Chance.

Chance frowned at Guerrero. Guerrero shrugged his shoulders. _Think of a better strategy, dude_, it said.

"My arm is still not one hundred percent", Chance told Ames, uneasily shifting his shoulder and wincing. "Don't think I can pull off a break in. Sorry, but I fear no go for you and Kermit tonight."

"KEN! For heaven's sake, his name is KEN!"

"Getting those documents would really make a difference", Ilsa chimed in. "Lawsuits of these dimensions need a rock solid fundament and those documents would definitely add lots of concrete, figuratively speaking." She knew why Chance was so fiercely determined on sending Ames on this job – this Ken had let her pick the movies and would provide beverage, didn't take a genius to figure out what he was most likely up to. Platonic roommates, sure.

Nevertheless, ulterior motives or not, Chance had a point. Those documents were valuable evidence.

"It's a Prometheus 200FX, Ames, nothing you haven't handled before", Winston agreed with Ilsa. Too many of his cases had floundered in court because some goddamn wise ass of a lawyer had managed to cast doubt among the jury. They needed as much evidence as they could get.

Winston had been playing with his pen while listening, continuously removing the cap and putting it back on a second later. Ilsa felt the urge to wrest it from his hand.

"I think I can get you a copied keycard from a dude who owes me one, so no rappelling", Guerrero added. He looked at Chance: _Happy now?_

Winston abruptly turned around and stared at Guerrero. Guerrero stared back, then slowly raised a questioning eyebrow.

Huh, they openly agreeing on something. Still felt strange somehow.

"You're all hell-bent on ruining my evening, aren't you?" Ames was still in the pouts, but she did enjoy the team pleading with her. They needed her. It felt good.

"I want popcorn afterwards", she finally said.

… … …

Guerrero had noticed Winston being strangely fidgety during the meeting. An eye for details was important in his line of work. The way he had played with his pen… In his cop years Winston had learned very well to keep his emotions under control, at least to a certain point. Anger management was not exactly his thing. But nervousness? Not Winston…

One idle afternoon Guerrero had taken a look at a couple of old tapes from Winston's interrogations. Not bad. He sat still for hours, only to suddenly erupt, like a volcano. With a man his size, quite an impressive sight and sometimes enough to break a suspect. But it only worked if he sat very still.

His fidgeting around with the pen… Something was wrong. Guerrero decided to hang around a little longer. After Chance had disbanded the meeting, he casually walked over to the kitchen.

Sure enough, Winston followed him.

"What's the matter, dude?"

"Protecting my lunch, that's all." Winston grabbed a Tupperware box from the fridge, a fork from the drawer, sat down and started eating the contents.

"You sure you don't want to put that in the oven first?"

"My lunch, not yours", Winston snarled, put a forkful into his mouth, realized he was eating raw meat pie and spat, cursing.

"Okay dude, spill it out."

For a long moment, Winston said nothing, did nothing except breathe. Then: "I need… something… from you."

Guerrero casually shrugged his shoulders. "Unregistered gun? Dirt on the neighbor with the annoying cat so he gets kicked out of his apartment? You name it, dude."

"How the hell do you know about…? Just forget it. Shouldn't even have thought about going to you."

"You know the rules, Winston. Pay me and you get whatever you ask for. You really want to outsorce?"

As much as Winston hated to admit it, he had a point.


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

It didn't take Guerrero long to get the keycard copy.

"Is that _blood_?" Ilsa held the card against the light of her desk lamp and eyed a tiny dark red speck suspiciously.

"Dude thought he could renegotiate our terms of agreement", Guerrero replied drily, took the card from her hands and wiped it clean. "Sharp eyes", he murmured appreciatively before handing it to Ames.

"There goes my evening", Ames sighed and tucked it away.

At least Guerrero hadn't promised too much. Getting into the building was a piece of cake. The keycard let her ride the elevator right up to the 36th floor where CasGrov's offices were located. Chance and Winston had a ball distracting the watchman in the lobby with a couple of prank calls from the van.

… … …

Guerrero might have enjoyed this, too, but he had an invitation. He had made it a habit to give Isamu karate lessons whenever it fit into his schedule and Akemi had invited him to dinner as a way of saying thank you.

She welcomed him in a long red dress with thigh high slit, hugging her petite figure very agreeably, not to mention her matching red pumps and varnished nails. Damn, she reminded him of the girl in Osaka.

"Isamu sends his greetings. He just loves your lessons. You're doing him a great favor." She led him to the living-room and motioned him to take a seat. The table was laid perfectly in colors of gray and white, with shiny black tableware. One look and Guerrero knew it was the same brand as Ilsa's pears.

"Isamu's not here?"

Akemi smiled at him and raised one of her eyebrows in mock imitation of his signature expression. The answer was indeed quite obvious. She would have never dressed like that with her son around.

"Sleepover at a friend's." She poured him sake. The scents from the kitchen, subtle, almost like perfume, were very promising. She excused herself and walked into the adjacent room. Guerrero could hear her opening what was probably the oven. He took his glass and weighed it in his hands. The clear liquid sloshed back and forth. It was perfectly chilled and would surely taste excellent. The temptation to just take it, drink it, enjoy it, was great.

But… he kept staring at the table in gray, white and black. The glass pear Ilsa had given him in that dark night when his whole world had been turned upside down was still stored away in his locker at the office, the safest place he could think of. After her night with Chance he had thought about giving it back, but in the end had held onto it.

The tattoo on her back. _Kizuna. _

Jeez, who was he to throw the first stone?

In the kitchen Akemi was apparently getting ready to present him the first course. Judging from the scents she had actually prepared sashimi with daikon and shiso. She must have spent hours getting the food ready.

Guerrero made a decision. He put the glass back on the table, drink untouched, got up and joined her in the kitchen.

"Got to go."

"But dinner?" The smile she had given him only moments earlier first froze, then vanished.

"Sorry, not hungry."

He really _was_ sorry. But out he walked nevertheless, leaving a crestfallen Akemi behind.

… … …

Back at CasGrov's office's, Ames was glancing at her watch. The safe had posed no problem at all. She was in possession of the all important documents and no alarm whatsoever had been triggered. Thirty minutes from now this whole thing would be over and done.

The night was still young. Theoretically she could go home and watch a movie or two with Ken after all … or share a drink with Winston and Chance… Maybe Winston would want to call it a day early and she could stick around a little longer… With Chance drunk he might finally want to talk properly about the Scotland disaster…

San Francisco is built in a, from a geologist's point of view, very interesting area. The Pacific and North American tectonic plates meet right there, all along what's known as the San Andreas Fault. When they get stuck, the resulting strain energy builds up until the frictional resistance becomes greater than the shear stress. Then the sudden release of energy causes an abrupt movement of the plates, resulting in seismic waves.

On the surface, these seismic waves create elliptical ground movements, known as earthquakes.

"Whoa", Ames, trained Californian, commented the slight tremble that briefly shook the room. "Strongest one in weeks. Hope they don't close the Bridge again. Hate the other route."

"A four on the Richter scale, no need to worry", Chance read from the screen as Winston checked the news.

Just then the building where CasGrov's offices were housed, the very building in whose 36th floor Ames was currently doing business, made a long lasting, painfully drawn out groaning sound.

… … …

Guerrero was about the last person on earth Ilsa had expected to come calling this late in the night. What surprised her even more was the fact that he had actually rung the doorbell instead of simply breaking in as he had done more than once in the past.

"Weren't you invited to dinner?" She had overheard Akemi's invitation. Quite frankly, she had spent half the evening thinking about it.

He shrugged his shoulders.

What did that mean? Bloody hell, sometimes he drove her crazy with his enigmatic silence.

"But you must be hungry. I didn't see you eating much at the office." Unsure what to make out of the situation, Ilsa fled into the kitchen area. "I'm going to fix you something."

She started digging in the fridge, but of course came away pretty much empty handed. She ate at the office or in restaurants. Her fridge contained hardly more than a cucumber and an easily perishable face cream.

"Let's order in", she suggested, grabbed her phone and started dialing La Rosalia's number.

Still silent and frighteningly smooth, Guerrero crossed the distance between them, took the phone from her hands and put it on the kitchen counter.

"Aren't you hungry?" Ilsa was definitely unnerved by the situation.

"Yes, Ilsa, I am hungry." He made one last step towards her, slightly pushed her backwards against the kitchen counter – Ilsa could have sworn the ground started to tremble – and kissed her.

She answered the kiss immediately, deepened it, gave it more force. He pinned her against the furniture, his hands slipping underneath her blouse, claiming what should have been his a long time ago, while she pulled at his clothes in return...

… when the telephone rang.


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**A/N: Bad news, folks: Real life has been a little rocky for the past six months or so and I decided I need a bit of a break. I came up with the bright idea of taking that break in the guesthouse of a remote Benedictine monastery, not realizing that remote Benedictine monasteries and their guesthouses don't tend to have a connection to the internet. In other words: I'll be cut off from fan fiction for a week – GAAAAH! I'll be back on the 16th, 18th at the latest. I hope you don't give up on this story in the meantime. I know how annoying slow updates are and I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience. I never planned to stay away from ff net – in fact faith and fan fiction are what helped me make it through the last few months.**_

_**See you (hopefully) next Friday, **_

_**Cedric**_

Tall buildings are usually constructed in one of three possible ways – with steel, with in situ concrete or with prefabricated concrete members, also known as "large penal systems". The building where the CasGrov offices were accommodated was an LPS building. A set of concrete parts had been made at a factory and transported to the site, where they had been lifted into place with a crane and then joined together. A very effective method to build houses, and safe, too.

Unless, of course, the panels aren't joined together correctly.

There are only so many earthquakes a building structure that's flawed can take before it, in a very literally sense, gives in, even when the final straw that broke the camel's back, or, in this case, cracked the load-bearing flank walls on the 12th floor, was just a minor 4 on the Richter scale earthquake.

"What was _that_?", Ames asked, frowning. The groaning sound had stopped just as suddenly as it had appeared, but something about it had made her skin crawl.

"Whatever it was, you better get out of there", Chance replied in a no-nonsense tone. He was worried, too. Buildings are not supposed to groan.

The damaged walls on the 12th floor threatened the structural supports to the floors above, thanks to the weakness of the joints connecting the vertical walls to the floor slabs. In less than ten minutes the flank walls would fall away, leaving the floors above unsupported. This would cause the progressive collapse of everything above the 12th floor.

Ames didn't know she had less than ten minutes left to make it below the twelfth floor, but her gut feeling told her to hurry up. Hoping she wouldn't catch the attention of the guard in the lobby, she started running down the stairwell.

It was going to be a long way down.

… … …

"I'm calling 911", Winston decided. "The quake probably destabilized the building, like the one in Fillmore two years ago, remember? They better take a look."

"I'll call Ilsa." Chance activated his mobile.

"She said something about going to bed early and getting some rest."

"Well, she's the one insisting on a transparent information policy, isn't she?" Chance grinned and dialed Ilsa's number.

Winston rolled his eyes. Chance could be such a child. Then: "We're not going to call Guerrero?"

"He's over at Akemi's, for _dinner_… you know how much he hates disturbances when he's busy…"

Someone picked up the phone on the other end of the line.

_"Talk"_, a very familiar voice bellowed.

Chance was surprised, mildly put. Had he dialed the wrong number? Chosen his friend's instead of Ilsa's, out of habit?

"Guerrero? I thought you were at Akemi's. What are you doing at Ilsa's?"

_"Dude!"_

Realization dawned on Chance. Unconsciously rubbing his wrist, he quickly explained the situation with Ames, then put the phone down.

… … …

When Ames reached the tenth floor, the building started making sounds again, this time rather high pitched metallic screeching noises that made the hairs on her neck stand up. Winston and Chance in the van suddenly grew very tense. They could not only hear the noise over Ames' earpiece, it permeated the walls of the car, too, although it was parked around the block.

"Ames, RUN!", Chance yelled while Winston called 911 again to tell them that this was URGENT.

"I think I'm hearing something", Ames replied between gasps for air.

"Yes, you're hearing a building crumbling to pieces right above your head." Winston cut the connection with 911 again. In the distance sirens started to wail.

"No, there's something else, screaming, I think someone's trapped in one of the elevators!"

"Ames, you're not going to check. Firemen are on their way, they're professionals, let them do their job, get your ass out there, it's not safe." Chance tried it with his calm, strict voice.

"Says _who_?" Ames was already on her way to the row of elevators in the lobby of the 10th floor and indeed, there were people trapped in there. The cleaning crew, most likely.

"I'm on my way!" Chance jumped out of the van.

"No! Something's wrong with the building, you're not going in here!" Ames immediately recognized the problem: The elevator doors didn't open anymore. She took the combat knife she had made a habit of wearing after seeing the boys armed like that, called out a brief warning to the people inside and pushed it up to the hilt between the doors.

Outside, Chance was stopped by a fireman. They were cordoning off the surrounding streets.

The tricky thing with using a knife for other purposes than cutting something is that the blade might break. That would have been disastrous, there was no other instrument around Ames could have used for leverage. Thankfully it was made of high tensile steel. Guerrero had sent it to her in the aftermath of the Scotland disaster.

"Best money can buy. Owner doesn't need it anymore", the note had said.

He would have never said so, but Ames had interpreted it as his way of telling her to take care.

Gradually, inch by inch, the doors moved and from the inside quickly fingers, then hands appeared and helped pushing them apart. Together they managed to produce a gap wide enough for most of the people to squeeze through. One man, however couldn't possibly get through. He was too overweight.

The building's screeching, meanwhile, had taken on an even fiercer quality. Chance, at the fire department's barrier that kept him from getting closer to the building, realized with worry that the firemen were reluctant to go into the building, although the guard from the lobby was apparently informing them about the cleaning crew.

Firemen that didn't go into a building although people needed help? That spoke of a very dire situation.

"Ames! You got to get out of there!"

"Almost done!" Ames helped the men and women out, one by one, and sent those that were free outside. The floors and walls were constantly trembling now. This was not good, not good at all.

The overweight man still trapped in the elevator looked at her with eyes large as a frightened horse's. "Go! I won't make it!" His wobbly voice betrayed his attempt at bravery.

A horrible ripping sound momentarily blocked out all other noise.

The whole cab shook violently.

One of the elevator cables had broken.

The man screamed.

"Just a few inches more and you'll fit through." Ames regained her balance and continued working frantically on the gap.

"Try and use your feet as extra leverage", Chance advised via earpiece, running around the firemen's barrier, trying to find a way into the building.

"How stupid do you think I am?" Ames and the man both used their feet to push the doors further apart.

"My name is Frank", he told Ames.

"Nice to meet you, Frank", Ames replied and despite the dire situation, they both had to smile at this exchange of niceties.

The second elevator cable ripped and the cab fell several feet deep before the last cable stopped it. It wouldn't last long, both Frank and Ames knew that, but there was still a chance…

"I swear I'm going to start a diet tomorrow. Do sport! Walk to work every morning!"

A horrible crunching sound overlaid his voice. Ames knew what it was, her instincts kicked in, she jumped backwards, away from the elevator – the final cable ripped, the cab crashed down the well.

Chance knew what had happened immediately. Ames' horrified sob was all he needed to hear. "It's not your fault. Now run! Run… please!" He still hadn't found a way into the building.

Tears in her eyes, Ames started running down the stairs again, significantly slowed down this time, though. While jumping away from the elevator she had sprained an ankle.

She had barely noticed that the building's groans and shrieks had turned into a low rumble when the low rumble already became an angry grumble and then, a split second later, a rolling thunder.

The floors above the twelfth had sandwiched and the first twelve floors were carrying all their weight now.

Outside, in a huge cloud of dust, Chance realized what was happening and basically screamed "RUN! AMES! RUN!" It was only a question of time till the first twelve floors would collapse, too.

"What do you think I'm…"

With a mighty thunderclap, the building came down.


	25. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**A/N: Look who's back again… I came down with a heavy flu Friday evening, tried to hang on, gave up on Monday. C'est la vie. **_

"Ames is in a building showing signs of destabilization after an earthquake?" Ilsa's voice rose in pitch towards the end of the question.

"Don't worry, by now she and the documents will be half way to the office, safe and sound." Seeing Ilsa button her blouse again, Guerrero decided Chance was definitely in for another sparring session.

Soon.

"If there's no need to worry, then why did Chance call in the first place?" Ilsa exited the kitchen area and Guerrero watched her retreating backside with regret.

"Payback for your introduction of the transparent information policy..." Guerrero followed her into the living-room.

"God, how old is he? Five?" Nevertheless Ilsa switched on the TV.

"BREAKING NEWS" said the words on the screen, and a split second later the regular program was interrupted by a report on a collapsed building in the FiDi.

Guerrero was already pulling horrified Ilsa out the door when his cell phone rang. The display showed Winston's number. "We know, dude", Guerrero told him. "We're on the way to the office." He cut the connection.

"The office? Not the FiDi?"

"What good could we do there?" He took Ilsa's hand and dragged her into the elevator.

... ... ...

Chance's instincts screamed at him to barge in and rescue her, NOW. But barge in where? The building was reduced to a giant heap of steel, concrete, glass, with parts of the staircase and the elevator shafts sticking out like skeleton fragments from a mauled body.

"This requires heavy equipment, Chance. Rescue Dogs. A team of specialists. Let the firemen do their job." Winston knew Chance well.

"I sent her in there." Chance's voice was croaking, outsiders might have thought from the building's dust cloud.

"We all did." Winston knew he had to be firm on this point. A Chance on a guilt trip was the last thing they needed.

"But I..."

"Save the remorse part for later, dude." Guerrero had apparently managed to log himself into their earpieces' channel. "You know the rules - rescuing first, indulging in useless feelings of guilt later."

Winston had to admit, he had never been happier hearing Guerrero's voice.

"Ilsa just hooked up with some professor from the earthquake monitoring station. Tons of data are coming in right now and the way it looks they fear this minor one was only a preliminary tremor to a much bigger one", Guerrero continued.

At this very moment sirens started wailing all over the city, warning the people that a big one - maybe _the_ big one - was coming.

"You know the fire brigades' guidelines in these cases, dude..."

Yes, Chance knew them. Nevertheless he grabbed a fireman passing him by: "My girlfriend is in that building!"

Despite the situation everybody who was listening in raised an eyebrow at Chance's word choice. Was he only trying to put the fireman under more pressure or...?

"We're doing our best", the fireman replied, but the look on his face betrayed him. According to the SF Fire Department's book of guidelines, firemen were not to enter a destabilized building when a major earthquake was imminent.

Chance turned away and started walking along the barrier the fire department had erected. He didn't pay any attention to the fact that his brief exchange with the fireman had been caught on camera. Granted, he was covered in dust, but people who knew him well could recognize him. Such as a certain FBI agent, for example, who had just arrived at her SF hotel.

"Winston, no matter what you say..." Chance was ready to turn the earpiece off, should he object.

In the light of the latest developments, however, Winston had changed his mind. They needed to get Ames out of there now. Waiting for the authorities was not an option anymore. "Guerrero's already working on her location. Her earpiece is out, but he thinks he can calculate something with the help of satellite data. I contacted an old buddy of mine who is with the squad that's on the spot. Called in a favor. He'll leave his uniform with equipment for you around the corner."

Guerrero spoke up again. "The elevator shafts and the staircase share one supporting wall that was steel clad during construction in case of a fire. That's the part of the building that's still standing. If she was near that wall..." He let the sentence trail off. They all knew it was a big "if". "Still working on the exact location."

"Any news from Ilsa's professor?"

"Get her out of there, Chance." Ilsa's voice was shaking. "And don't die."

"Sending you Ames' approximate position now." Guerrero's voice again. Chance's cell phone gave a bleep.

"The best point of entry should be the parking lot underneath the building. It is still intact… If you climb up one of the elevator shafts..." Guerrero didn't need to point out that the garage was still intact _for now_ and if the major earthquake came, or even another minor one, this would be the end of Chance. "Watch out, bro..."

"We'll meet down in the garage then." Winston's voice. "At the shaft."

"Winston...", Chance croaked.

"See you in ten, Chance."

... ... ...

Inside the giant heap of debris that had once been a proud forty floors skyscraper in San Francisco's Financial District, another wall gave in and set free a small avalanche of building parts, furniture, paper, glass and steel shreds. Small stones rained down on a lifeless body in a small cavern right by the elevator shaft, roughly where once the 9th floor had been.

It didn't move at all.


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

In 1906 an 8.0 earthquake shook San Francisco for a whole minute, with the epicenter offshore, about two miles from the city, near Mussel Rock. At least 3000 people died back then and more than a quarter million others were left homeless – from a city with 410.000 citizens.

83 years later, in 1989, a 7.1 tremor hit 60 miles south of the city for 15 seconds – 4000 people were injured, 63 died, around 12.000 were left homeless.

Sounds better, if you only look at the numbers. The relatives of the victims might disagree.

After 9/11 a lot of money and attention was diverted towards preventing man-made disasters and homeland security set the priorities regarding emergency planning and preparation. Hurricane Katrina in 2005, however, was an eye-opener. Al Qaida or not, you can't ignore nature.

So more money was poured into retrofitting bridges and overpasses on the State Highway System to current earthquake standards. But, let's face it, San Francisco without Bay Bridge and Golden Gate Bridge, which might very well go down in a major earthquake, is basically an island and no amount of preparation whatsoever can miraculously get 2 million people off that island safely and fast.

Not to mention the fact that nearly a third of the city's schools are not up to the current earthquake standards. Neither is the city's biggest hospital, San Francisco General. Earthquakes of the 1906/1989 category are very likely to break gas and water lines, causing massive fires with the fire brigades unable to extinguish them, due to lack of water… while hundreds of thousands of acres all around the city at the same time could go underwater, should parts of the 1,000-mile levee system that protects farmland and vital fresh water supplies from San Francisco Bay's salt water break.

Thank God at least Ash and Philippa were out of town for the week.

"Ilsa, Guerrero, you better leave the city as long as it's possible." Winston was holding the flashlight as Chance inspected the remains of the most intact looking elevator shaft. The one Frank had died in lay in ruins only a couple of feet away.

"We aren't going anywhere", Ilsa replied firmly via earpiece.

"At least go outside, to the park or whatever. I doubt the warehouse is up to earthquake standards", Chance tried again.

"All the equipment we might need is here, at the office. Especially the satellite connection. We're staying." Guerrero this time.

Together Chance and Winston forced open the elevator doors. Through the cab's rescue door in the ceiling, Chance climbed upwards. The heavy fireman's uniform hampered him, but without the equipment he'd be lost – it was pitch black inside the shaft and the helmet's strong flashlight at least let him see where to go next. Aside from that the helmet itself protected him from lose debris, falling down every now and then.

"At least 20 feet more, Chance", Guerrero told him via earpiece.

20 feet, what a ridiculously short distance… unless you have to cross it by shinnying up a dark, crumbling well. Sweat was running down Chance's face and neck in thick, relentless streams, mixing with the dust from the collapsed building and creating a grimy, itching layer on his skin.

In addition to that breathing became more and more difficult, the higher up he got. Of course, all the ventilation shafts were surely blocked by debris. But what kind of smell was that?

"Better use the oxygen mask", Guerrero advised Chance. "The building was on gas supply and although they cut it off by now, there's no telling how much is still streaming out the damaged pipes."

"Ames might need it more than I do", Chance panted, pulling himself up another few inches.

… … …

Down in the garage, Winston got company. Five firemen with heavy equipment in tow slowly followed Chance upwards, stabilizing the shaft on their way as best as they could.

"How come you're here after all?", Winston asked one of them. "According to the book of regulations…"

"Apparently someone dug up a couple of our secrets we'd like to keep under wraps. And someone else offered to pay all our mortgages."

Was it selfish what Guerrero and Ilsa had done? Considering that outside the city was in turmoil with ongoing evacuations, sirens wailing all over town… _Five_ firemen surely could have been put to better use than rescuing one person who was most likely not alive anyway.

From a strictly rational point of view, yes.

To hell with rationality. This was Ames they were talking about.

On the other end of the San Francisco, someone else decided to ignore rationality, too. The reasonable thing would have been to leave the city again as fast as possible. But somehow Emma had the feeling that this was the perfect situation to set her plan in motion.

And so, while the rest of SF's population was trying to get away, she headed towards the Financial District.

… … …

Since the firemen were building a retreat passage suitable for a stretcher and that was taking time, Chance was many feet above them when he reached the level that must have once been the 9th floor. Should he wait for them?

He needed to somehow force open the doors that, in normal times, protected people from falling down the elevator well. Theoretically not that much of a problem with the crowbar on his back, but he had little to none footing – if he lost balance, he would go down the shaft all the way to the garage level, and probably drag a fireman or two with him.

On the other hand – every second he lost, counted. If Ames was exposed to gas from a broken pipe… if she was injured and bleeding…

Chance took the risk and began to work on the elevator doors. The strain in his legs, in his back, in his arms seemed to tear at him, sent spasms down his spine. One wrong move… The sweat streaming down his forehead hampered his already diminished vision and breathing seemed to get more difficult by the second.

If this was gas…

If Ames was lying in a section filled with gas…

Groaning and screeching, the doors gave way and chance clambered out of the shaft. Guerrero had been right. Close by the elevator, the walls had held up and a small cavern had been created.

Chance almost didn't recognize Ames, her body was so white from the building's dust.

But there she lay.


	27. Chapter 27

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

The cavern was too small for Chance to stand up, he had to crawl towards Ames. Anxiously he sniffed the air for foul eggs, a sure sign that from somewhere gas was streaming in, but it was hard to tell. In the last couple of hours he had breathed in a lot of dust that now affected his sense of smell.

Crawling prone, stretched out at full length, he reached Ames' feet first. As he put his hand out to grasp her, his heart was beating so wildly, it felt as if it was going to explode. Once he could feel her skin he'd know if she was dead or alive. If the skin was cold…

The thick denim of her jeans and the grimy layer of dust on his fingers had the effect of thick work gloves: No nuanced sensory perception was possible. Cursing breathlessly, fingers shaking, he frantically pushed her pant leg up a little, at the same time not sure if he could stand the sensation of a lifeless limb.

Finally his fingertips brushed against smooth, clean-shaven skin.

And it _was_ warm.

But Chance knew well enough, that was only half the battle. A dead body needed hours to cool down completely. Supporting himself on one elbow, he inched a little closer. Since he had now one arm free, he could let his fingers wander a little further towards her ankle, where he should be able to detect a pulse…

_Should…_

For a moment he forgot breathing.

Then the tiniest of movements flickered against his fingertips and the world lurched back into place.

She was alive!

With newfound strength he hoisted himself forwards. "Ames", he whispered, cautiously touching her back. Her right arm was buried under debris, but he could detect no blood.

She let out a pained moan, faint, barely audible. Chance drew back his hand, worried he was hurting her.

At long last he managed to come lying right next to her. "Ames…", he tried again.

She whimpered.

"Bro?" Guerrero's voice via earpiece.

"We need to get her out of here, fast." With the gentlest of touches, Chance removed the strands of hair that covered Ames's face. Her lips were horribly parched, white dust filling every chap. Her eyes were firmly closed, the long lashes clotted with grime.

Hectically Chance wiped her nostrils free as well as he could and then fumbled with the respirator. The cavern was so small, he had terribly little room to maneuver and to him it felt as if it took ages till he had worked the device loose. Finally he was able to put the breathing mask on her.

"Breathe. Breathe for me", he softly told her.

Her eyelids fluttered open. For a moment her gaze wandered aimlessly, then her eyes found focus. She was directly looking at him.

"Guerrero? Turn the earpieces off."

A split second later Chance's earpiece cracked, then went dead.

He swallowed hard. "There's something I need to tell you."

… … …

"There must be a way to give a more reliable prediction!" Ilsa was practically yelling at the professor from the earthquake monitoring station. "_Maybe_ in the next few minutes, _maybe _a much stronger one is not helpful at all!

Guerrero walked over to her, took the telephone from her hands, disconnected the call and put it on the table. Ilsa couldn't help it, she started shaking and suddenly the tears came, streamed down her face. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.

His cell phone on the computer table signaled shortly. Guerrero noticed but didn't check the message. This particular bleep indicated it was from one of his informants, he had expected it. That matter could wait.

Down at the FiDi collapse site Emma Barnes flashed her FBI badge at the lone policeman that was supposed to keep watch. He barely paid attention to her ID – the city all around them was in turmoil, the sound of the various sirens mixing with those of thousands and thousands of automobiles on the streets, packed with people somehow trying to get away, was a constant background to his windmilling thoughts. What about his family? His wife was pregnant. His daughter was in daycare.

An ambulance that had somehow made it through the traffic caught Emma's attention. It headed towards the entrance of the subterranean garage underneath the building, which was, to her great surprise, not blocked by debris. She decided to follow it.

… … …

"You kept me alive", Chance whispered, gently removing another stray strand of hair from Ames's face and tucking it behind her ear. "When I was so lost. Before I knew there was Ash. You kept me alive."

Her eyes fluttered closed and he quickly checked her breathing and her pulse. Both was faint but detectable. Coming from the shaft he could hear the muffled voices of the firemen, their scraping and scratching at the walls as they installed the equipment that would help to get Ames out.

Her eyes opened again. She didn't say a word, but Chance understood.

_Spit it out already. _

"There was this woman. Katherine. I was lost and she found me. I hadn't even known how lost I was till I met her. She was … hope … life … But the second I understood… she was snatched away from me again." Chance's voice cracked.

"She died, Ames. And a part of me died with her."

The scraping and scratching of the firemen grew louder. They were almost there.

"When you told me… at that lake… after you had just survived that explosion…"

A sob escaped Chance's lips.

"All I could think was that I couldn't go through all that again. The thought of again losing … hope … life … I'm so sorry, I was a coward, only out to protect myself…"

Ames' eyes threatened to close again. She was trembling, fighting with all her might to keep them open.

"…and I was wrong. It was already way too late to stop anything. You already are life to me. And hope. I love you, Ames."

Her eyes were shut.

Behind Chance, the loud groaning of the metal doors as they were forced open a few inches more, announced the arrival of the firemen.


	28. Chapter 28

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**A/N: Dear M, thank you for taking the time to leave a review. It means the world to me when someone out there responds to what I'm doing. It's an enormous motivation. Big thanks to everyone who is still following this story! **_

Chance hated leaving Ames' side, but with him in the cavern the firemen effectively had not enough room to reach her, let alone get her on the stretcher. So Chance, as quickly as possible, crawled backwards, through the now bigger gap between the elevator doors and into the darkness of the shaft. He didn't keep climbing, though – he remained right underneath the opening, waiting for the firemen to appear with Ames.

The biggest problem was that they didn't know how she had ended up in the position she was now in. Had she fallen? And if yes, how deep? Had something hit her? The chance that she had sustained a back injury was very high and they needed to stabilize her spinal column as well as in any way possible.

On the other hand: They were in a cavern of a collapsed building. A major earthquake was threatening to hit every second. The severely damaged remaining structure was most likely only minutes away from giving in anyway.

Grabbing Ames by the ankles, dragging her through the gap, into the abyss and only then strapping her onto the stretcher while holding her dangling, would have definitely been the fastest method.

But also the potentially most risky.

The dragging could cause or aggravate her state of health, probably lead to permanent spine injury. And permanent spine injury, that could mean paralyzed legs, quadriplegia or even death.

Operation successful, patient dead?

Yes, but of what use would a perfectly stabilized spinal column be if the building went down above their heads?

The firemen didn't waste time trying to come to the most reasonable decision in a situation that allowed no most reasonable decision. They followed their guts, their experience and yes, their ingrained need to protect those who needed help. Bribed and black mailed or not, the men were risking their lives for Ames and especially their decision to take the time and stabilize her properly _was_ heroic.

… … …

Ames was half-way down the shaft when it started.

The second tremor.

In the beginning they could only hear it. A low growl in the darkness, like some sort of angry animal, protecting its territory.

Then the vibration itself arrived. A first wave, riding along every surface, almost tenderly. Wave number two, following a split second later, rode nothing.

It _grabbed_.

Grabbed the ground, the walls, the people.

Debris came raining down the shaft, hit their helmets, their bodies.

Thank God Ames was in a stretcher with solid protective covering.

And thank God for all the supportive devices the firemen had installed in the shaft on their way up. Chance, who had ascended the elevator well without any regard to his own safety was now at least attached to a rope.

But would it be enough? Somewhere above them something very heavy gave in. The whole shaft shook.

Shook.

Crunched.

Shook some more.

Stopped.

Silence.

For a moment everyone just froze. Then they knew it wasn't simply wishful thinking.

The walls _really_ were still standing.

Good Lord, they were still standing.

… … …

Down in the garage everything then happened within seconds. EMTs and Winston lent a hand as the firemen maneuvered Ames out of the shaft and into the open, where an ambulance with a doctor was waiting.

Bless Ilsa's deep pockets and Guerrero's vast knowledge.

Unfortunately, however, the presence of the ambulance had attracted the lone policeman's attention. Deserting his post, he had followed the vehicle just like Emma only moments prior. Seeing the men coming out of the garage immediately raised his suspicion. What the hell were firemen doing inside the building? According to the book of regulations…

The young man hectically approached the group of men, just in time to see Ames being loaded into the ambulance. The vehicle wouldn't be able to drive off anytime soon, not with the streets jammed with traffic and most likely accidents, now, after the second quake, but inside the ambulance the doctor would at least be able to treat her as well as possible.

He had keen eyes, that police man, despite the poor lighting from a few spotlights the firemen had set up and despite the shock from the second tremor. He immediately spotted the combat knife attached to Ames' right ankle where the cloth of her pant leg was torn and he also – kudos for that – noticed the documents underneath Ames' pullover. The strap with which she had held them in place was coming loose, some of the papers were peeking out beneath the hem of her shirt.

Combat knife plus hidden documents? The power of deduction was no alien concept to the officer.

"That's a thief! The earthquake must have surprised her while breaking in!", he yelled, pointing at Ames' still unconscious body.

Winston and Chance looked at each other. This was just plain unbelievable. What were they supposed to do now? They couldn't escape with Ames, being in the state she was. The doctor looked vaguely optimistic, but that was only a first impression.

So what? Fight the rookie? And risk the firemen turning against them? And then fight them, too? Probably hurt them? After they had just put their lives on the line for Ames?

"She's with me", a very familiar, but for a long time not heard voice at this very moment said. "She's a vital part of an ongoing FBI investigation. This is no matter of your concern and I think you've just deserted your post, haven't you? I'll be willing to overlook this, given the circumstances."

With a self-assured smile, despite the dust from the building covering her whole body, Emma Barnes sent the officer away.

"Long time no see", she greeted Chance.

… … …

Luckily, the second tremor also remained the last tremor to hit San Francisco that day. The time of the big one was yet to come. It took a while, but in the evening Ames was finally safe and sound in a hospital bed, exhausted and bruised, but alive.

Guerrero had somehow managed to slip Chance a sedative so that he was resting, too, in another Ilsa Pucci provided private room. Ilsa and Winston wanted to see Ames together, but Guerrero held Winston back. "Need to talk to you for a minute, dude."

After Ilsa had disappeared into Ames' room, Guerrero activated his smart phone. "Michele got engaged three weeks ago. She's probably trying to tell you, that's why she keeps calling and meeting you."

He showed Winston photos of Michelle and a balding, middle-aged man. His name was Hank.

"That doesn't make any sense", Winston replied, his eyes never leaving the screen. "If she just wanted to tell me… why didn't she simply spill it out?"

"Sorry, dude." A different man than Guerrero would have briefly patted his back or shown some other comforting gesture. Guerrero let him read the info sheet about Hank in peace.

… … …

Inside the hospital room, Ames greeted Ilsa with a weak smile.

"You scared us quite a bit, young lady."

"Sorry", Ames croaked.

Ilsa bent down and hugged her.

"One thing", Ames whispered.

"Whatever it is." Ilsa sat down by her bedside and took her hand.

"Back in the cavern… Chance talked to me… did you… were the earpieces…?"

"Don't worry." Ilsa squeezed Ames' hand. "He told us to switch them off. What he said remains between him and you."

With a sigh that Ilsa interpreted as relief, Ames closed her eyes.

As peaceful as she might have looked from the outside, however, her mind was everything but. She had been slipping in and out of consciousness during Chance's speech and she could only remember one thing clearly.

A name.

_Katherine. _

And there were three other words, but she was not sure if he had really said them or if she had just wished he'd say them.

Damn it. 


	29. oh, the blue Danube

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ Oh, the blue Danube ~ **_

"As you can see…" Innokentij changed to the next slide of his powerpoint presentation "…we're not talking about short-term goals but envisaged developments covering the course of the next ten years."

With satisfaction he noticed that he still had his audience's full attention. The consortium of people from China, Argentina, Denmark, Sierra Leone and Uzbekistan was all ears. Even the Yemenite representative was nodding appreciatively. But of course he was also the first to ask an additional question at the end of Innokentij's presentation.

"We're very pleased to note that Bogdan's unfortunate demise did not diminish the strength and potential of горизонт. However, in order to not only create but also stabilize a network this deep and far reaching you need, in four to five years at the latest, at least one reliable enforcer – utterly loyal to the organization, highly competent in many different areas, able to blend in a huge variety of groups and societies all over the world… Such skilled personnel is hard to find."

"I'm already looking at a suitable candidate", Innokentij smiled.

… … …

It was early Saturday morning at the office. Ames had moved back in a couple of days ago and only yesterday they had managed to transport the last piece of her stuff from the apartment she had shared with Ken back to the Tenderloin. To everyone's surprise that last piece had turned out to be a shiny black grand piano she had never mentioned possessing before.

"When I left… after Scotland… I thought I'd try something new…" Ames seemed intend to shrug it off as a fancy idea, but something about her expression told Chance that was not the complete story.

"That's a Steinway, custom made, costs a fortune. How did you afford it?"

"I kept my money together", she replied, a bit snappishly. It drove her nuts, not remembering what Chance had told her back in the cavern. The way he looked at her now and then… Was he waiting for her to make some kind of move? Or was she misinterpreting things?

The doctor had said she might regain some bits and pieces of memory once she was completely recovered, but by now she wasn't very confident about that anymore. The problem was not that she didn't remember anything, the problem was that she wasn't sure what had been real and what had been wishful thinking.

And she sure as hell couldn't ask him.

"Could have sworn I read about a custom made grand piano being stolen from an LA mansion around that time. Left everyone wondering how the thief pulled it off..." He gave her a boyish smile.

"I've heard these things get stolen quite often. There's a huge black market for grand pianos." It was amazing how earnestly she delivered that sentence.

"I bet getting that thing out of the mansion without setting the alarms off thoroughly impressed the insurance company that eventually hired you. I'm surprised they let you keep it. Or is the original owner's daughter now lambasting For Elise on a Chinese fake?"

Ames stuck her tongue out at him.

Anyway, moving that piano to the third floor had taken all of Friday evening. Ilsa had offered hiring specialists, but for whatever reason the men had regarded transporting the instrument as some sort of male pride thing and thus they had ended up staying overnight at the office, too tired to go home.

So, on Saturday morning, since Ash had also spent the night at his father's, the kitchen was quite full of life.

Guerrero was already eating cereals at the kitchen table, Ames was chopping something healthy on the worktop and Winston was messing with the coffee machine when Ash came padding in. Ilsa hadn't arrived yet and nobody was surprised Chance was sleeping in. Carmine seemed to be dozing on his pillow in a corner, but despite his half-closed eyes he was on guard, ready to jump in when needed. This many people in the kitchen meant a highly increased chance of someone dropping something edible.

Ash, still drowsy and in his PJs, poured himself a glass of orange juice and carried the glass and a plate of toast to the kitchen table. As he placed the glass on the table, Guerrero suddenly shot forward, grabbed his wrist, twisted it around and pinned it to the table, sending the glass smashing on the floor.

"You're hurting me!", Ash protested, quite shocked by this sudden outbreak of violence.

"Stop struggling", Guerrero instructed him calmly.

Winston, who had spilt his coffee in the sudden turmoil, angrily grabbed a paper towel. "What the hell…?"

"Look at his hand." Guerrero's voice was cold and eerily placid. It made Ames shiver.

Winston walked over to the kitchen table, took a look and froze. "You can't be serious."

"What's the matter?" Now Ames came over, too. "OH."

"I've got no idea what… OUCH!" Ash flinched.

"Told you to stop struggling, dude."

Winston took a deep breath. "The injury on your hand…"

It was small, but deeper than the first layer of skin, reddish and jagged, less than 24 hours old, located at a very characteristic spot.

Now Ash got nervous. "Nothing but a scratch."

"That kind of _scratch_ comes from firing a gun and forgetting about the recoil. It's called rookie wound." Ames couldn't believe it."You fired a gun."

"This is nothing! What are you making such a drama about?" Ash's was on the edge of trying to wrest his hand free again, but this time a look from Guerrero stopped him right before it would have really hurt. "You're not going to tell Dad, are you?"

Oh, Ames knew the answer to that…

"No, we won't." Guerrero paused. Letting the boy's hopes go up and then crashing them was not exactly fair, but it definitely increased the learning effect. "_You're_ going to tell Chance."

At this very moment Chance walked in. "Tell me what?"

He was smiling, but of course he already knew something was off. He had been woken by the sound of shattering glass and he had heard his boy cry out. His eyes rested on Guerrero.

Ash threw Guerrero a pleading look.

Slowly Guerrero turned Ash's wrist, so Chance could see the wound.


	30. Chapter 30

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Ilsa frowned as she rode the elevator up to the office. She could hear something, but she wasn't exactly sure what. Not gunshots or explosions, she would have recognized those.

Practice...

Voices maybe?

But to hear voices in the elevator, with the thing rattling and swooshing the way it did lately – she really had to call a technician again, after Ames' earthquake experience those sounds were a bit unsettling – they had to be quite loud.

Well…

"We've only been target practicing! In Tommy's backyard! With Tommy's own weapon! His dad knew what we were doing and he said it was okay!" Ash was fiercely determined not to accept punishment this time. After weeks of apologizing and dancing around Tiffany, he had finally managed to charm her into a new date. No way he'd cancel that again.

"Guns are dangerous! They are not for playing around!" Chance was outraged.

The kitchen had been too small for the two's shouting match, so now they were yelling at each other in the lobby.

"We didn't _play around_! We practiced! You do it all the time! You even have your own firing range on the fourth floor!" The boy's stance made it very clear that he would not back down. The car thing, that had definitely been stupid and his bad, but this time he had thought everything through and he really didn't see where the harm was. Aside from that…

"And what about all those weapons stashed everywhere?" Ash puffed his chest in glorious teenage righteousness.

"That's a totally different thing! Weapons are not toys, not for entertainment, they need to be handled with care!" Chance couldn't believe it – where had he gone wrong? Where had he failed that his son was making one idiotic decision after another?

"Do you think I'm a baby? Too stupid to watch out for myself?" This was so typical, his father just didn't take him seriously. "And what do you want to do now? Handcuff me again? Why don't you lock me into my room, so I can do…" he hesitated, trying to find the most striking metaphor "… _a_ _jigsaw_ without hurting myself!"

A minute later Ash found himself exactly there, in his room, door lock clicking shut, just without the jigsaw.

"Not sure that was the best decision, dude", Guerrero remarked as Chance came stomping down the stairs again.

"He fired a gun! He and his buddies! You're the one studying actuary tables – how many times does this kind of thing go wrong?"

Ames walked past Guerrero's back to greet Ilsa at the elevator and inform her about the situation.

"What the hell would you do if your kid pulled off that kind of shit?", Chance hurled angrily at his friend.

"Ash needs to understand what weapons mean to you. You must make him see that they're your tools, necessary instruments to do your job", Winston spoke up.

"Says the man gibbering about wanting to fire a grenade launcher."

Winston decided to ignore that statement. "At the moment all you do is telling him what an idiot he is – you don't even give him a chance to grasp the gravity of the situation."

"Sit him down and talk to him, dude."

"You know what? You two agreeing, that really sucks." Chance felt the urge to kick something. To run ten miles. To fight someone. Good Lord, what was he supposed to do now? He needed to stop his son somehow, prevent him from screwing things up like that all the time… heavens, he knew so well where this kind of shit could lead… where it had led himself, when he had been only two years older than Ash…

"Chance, I think you should calm down, call Philippa, inform her about what happened and find a concerted solution", Ilsa tried the reasonable approach.

It fell on deaf ears.

"I can really do without your ten principles of human resources management, Ilsa."

Just then the security system alerted them to a visitor.

A man in his fifties, grayish hair, huge bald spot he unsuccessfully tried to cover with a couple of overlong strands, slightly overweight, in a shapeless gray coat from being washed too often, asked to see them. He introduced himself as Hans Meierle, insurance investigator from Austria.

"What can we do for you, Mr. Meierle?", Ilsa asked him, all business and professional, as they sat him down in the conference room.

Chance hoped he had somehow managed to piss off half of the Austrian mafia (if they had that kind of thing down there) or something else in that direction. Something that involved a thorough confrontation.

"My employer was asked to pay out the insurance sum for a necklace, stolen not long ago from one of our clients", Meierle began. "Ruby jewelry originally designed for Empress Elisabeth of Austria, more commonly known as Sissi. 2.2 million Euro."

Chance noticed that his crew members all reacted to this information more intensely than usual. Ames being all ears, that didn't surprise him, she was always interested in expensive jewelry, little magpie that she was. And Ilsa loved fine things, too, for different reasons, but still, so no surprise there either. On the other hand Winston and Guerrero starting to shift… well, not exactly uncomfortably… but definitely a little uneasily… There was something he wasn't quite getting yet.

Hang on a sec, the detective had said he was from Austria and Vienna was the capital of Austria… the job where they had left him alone… the violin thing they had been so suspiciously quiet about…

"The necklace was composed of rubies, gold and pearls. The masterpiece of a famous Hungarian goldsmith. Its foundation was black velvet. Flower pattern. They don't make this kind of filigree things anymore nowadays…" Meierle patted his coat, apparently looking for something, probably a photo. He dug into a couple of pockets, came up empty. Sighing, he gave up.

"Does the description sound familiar to you, Mrs. Pucci?"


	31. Chapter 31

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Ilsa's reaction to the detective's question was adorable. Around the time of the Crane's death Guerrero had started teaching her how to control her physical reactions, trying to make her a better liar, and she _had_ improved her skills. But still her eyes grew bigger the second Meierle asked her about the necklace, she straightened her back a little, took a slightly deeper breath…

Yeah, the description definitely sounded familiar to her.

Chance could see it and he was pretty sure, Meierle could, too. This mole-in-the-sunlight act he was putting up… – it was exactly that, an act, designed to put suspects at ease, lure them into a false and potentially disastrous feeling of superiority. And Chance had to give credit where credit was due. He was good at it.

Winston and Guerrero had noticed it, too – the detective's tiny, mouselike eyes, squinting at them so seemingly clueless, were actually quite keen. Not an opponent to underestimate…

"I have no idea what you're talking about", Ilsa told him in her most high-toned British accent.

Not a bad idea in general, British accents did have an intimidating effect on people with the Britannia rule the waves thing and all, but she was overdoing it, sounding haughty, and haughtiness usually indicated some kind of insecurity.

If the insurance detective had done his homework, and Chance was quite sure he had, he knew that Ilsa was known for being a philanthropist, determined to make the world a better place. Haughtiness didn't match with that kind of reputation. Meierle was surely wondering why she was displaying that kind of behavior.

Hmmm… Chance frowned.

Or did he already know more? What if he wasn't just snooping around, testing the water, trying to kick up some dirt and see where things would go? Had he maybe come here with a very specific plan in mind?

"Our client's necklace was stolen during a traditional costume ball at one of Vienna's most famous and finest hotels, the Kaiserhof Hotel. It has come to my attention that you, Mrs. Pucci, attended that ball incognito. You gained access with a counterfeit invitation. When the deceit came to light, security apprehended you and tried to hold you captive till the Gendarmerie arrived. Obviously you managed to escape."

Chance leaned back in his chair, quite astounded – Ilsa, hauled off by security? After sneaking into a high society ball? Why that incognito shit? Her name surely would have gotten her an invitation in no time. And what did Meierle mean by "escaped"?

Damn it, he would have paid money to see all that…

"I wore a replica of the necklace you described. Together with a matching replica of Empress Elizabeth's summer dress, as on display in the Vienna Hofburg. Or are you accusing me of having stolen that, too?"

Both Guerrero and Ames sighed deeply and a bit resignedly.

_"What?"_ said the look Ilsa threw Guerrero.

"The correct answer, Mrs. Pucci, would have been _"I've never been at that costume ball. That security staff's identification is highly doubtful."_ Meierle's tiny eyes gleamed.

"As of yet, that is." He smiled at her.

Ilsa stiffened. Small dark patches appeared all along her neck. She was getting angry.

"I'm not a thief."

"Don't get me wrong, but illegally gaining access to a private costume ball, blowing a hole into a heritage protected building of Vienna's world famous old quarter _and _fleeing from the police tells a different story." The detective's smile didn't waver.

Chance almost fell off his seat. Ilsa had really managed to build that bomb with Baptiste's instructions? And detonate it?

Jeez, all the fun he had missed!

"This is nothing more than a coincidence. The necklace I wore that evening was a very well done duplicate."

"A duplicate meant to replace the original. Countess Brunswik von Korompa Wankel de Martonvasar almost didn't notice the difference when she retrieved this most prized of her possessions from her hotel room's safe. A tiny scratch on the inside of one of the rubies gave you away."

"My presence at that ball had nothing – I insist, _nothing_ – to do with any jewelry theft." Ilsa was slowly losing her composure. If an accusation like that found its way into Connie's ears… This could put their funding at risk…

"If that is so, Mrs. Pucci, then why don't you show me your duplicate and prove to me that you didn't use it to replace it with the Countess' priceless family heirloom."

At "family heirloom", Ames looked up and frowned. She got up, went to get one of the laptops and started typing.

Ilsa sighed in frustration. "I can't…"

Now the insurance detective was grinning in obvious triumph. "Of course not… because I have it." He produced a transparent plastic bag from one of the many pockets of his coat. It contained a beautiful necklace.

"We found your DNA on the clasp. You definitely wore it."

… … …

Detective Meierle was not the only one leaning back in triumph because a plan was working out so well. Emma switched off her phone and let herself fall onto the hotel bed, satisfied smile on her face. Getting that e-mail address had been a pain in the ass, but she was sure it would be worth it. Now all she had to do was sent a short, encrypted message, and the wheels would start moving…

Granted, this was all pretty devious… not only regarding Chance and his team, who had helped her out of a tight spot more than once, she also felt sorry for the informant she was putting at risk for this. But there was no other way. She had wrecked her brain about this, but had not been able to come up with any alternative. She had promised her superior to deliver Guerrero. If she didn't manage that, she was done.

And she couldn't, absolute couldn't afford that. She needed her position with the Bureau.

The problem with selling out Guerrero was that it was already widely known in both FBI and CIA that he was dangerous and a criminal, but they had no proof against him, couldn't nail him for anything.

That was her job now, finding something to nail him.

In the end coming up with a plan had been simple. She would create a situation in which the team wouldn't be able to say no. In order to protect a client they'd do something very criminal and while committing that, Emma would call in her colleagues. Guerrero and, unfortunately, also the others, would be caught red handed.

The crucial point was to create a threat for the client that was perilous enough to make the team take desperate measures.

Arnie Grunnit, one of her informants, was a father of two small children, his wife was suffering from a chronic disease. In order to save that poor man from the grasp of one of the world's most dangerous underworld bosses, G. Brax, the team would surely go to great lengths. Such as breaking into United States Penitentiary ADX Florence in Colorado to get Brax the only thing that would make him give up wanting to punish Arnie Grunnit. His younger brother, who was serving time there for double murder in the first degree and human trafficking.

Granted, to create this situation, she really had to give up Grunnit to Brax, had to inform him about his snitching. But if everything went well and according to plan, she'd not only nail Guerrero but also be able to save Grunnit.

She was quite optimistic about that.


	32. Chapter 32

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Ilsa closed her eyes. This situation required poise and a sober mind – two things she had always prided herself of possessing. God knew she had worked long and hard to evolve inherited character traits into reliable social skills she could use to intimidate opponents, silence critics and stay ahead of things.

Why was the accusation of being a thief so unsettling to her? Heavens, Ames was a thief and it had never really disturbed her.

_Because in those two years you're working with the team now, you _have _gotten your hands dirty, darling, that's why. And more than once. _

Oh great, now, on top of everything else, her conscience was speaking up.

_You have become a criminal Ilsa, like it or not. How many people have you bribed? Blackmailed? Held captive against their will? Not to mention those two people you killed. _

Guerrero's eyes rested on her, blue as arctic ice.

_And let's not forget the man you're now going to bed with either. A coldblooded, multiple murderer. _

_"We haven't been to bed yet!"_, Ilsa wanted to reply angrily and stopped herself just in time from saying it out loud.

"Mrs. Pucci? What about an attempt at an explanation why your necklace replica ended up in Countess Brunswik von Korompa Wankel de Martonvasar's safe? I like amusing stories." Detective Meierle was now positively smirking at her.

"Dude, I'm not sure if you realize…", Guerrero jumped in, followed suit by Winston ("If the necklace alone was proof enough you wouldn't…") and Chance ("If I were you I would be a little more…").

Ilsa silenced them all with a strict wave of her hand. "I don't tell _stories_, Mr. Meierle. I'm going to give you a truthful account of that evening's events and you will see that your accusations are clearly unfounded." Ah, now she sounded like Ilsa Pucci again.

Guerrero, however, shot Ilsa an amused look. _Truthful?_

She didn't dare look back, worried Meierle might notice. Guerrero knew the answer anyway. She'd give an abridged version of the evening's events… just adjusted enough to neither get her into conflict with the law nor make her a fool in Chance's eyes.

"In order to protect our client's well-being…" (Ilsa decided it was not wise to let Meierle know that all of this had been about a man's attachment to his musical instrument, not a physically threatened life) "…I attended the ball incognito. For reasons that fall within our professional duty of confidentiality, I had to keep close to the musicians that were hired to entertain the guests that evening. Unfortunately one of the musicians proceeded to leave his post."

_"He had smelt the rat because you didn't manage to keep watch on him unobtrusively enough…"_, Chance readjusted the story in his head.

"When I set out to follow him, as our client's well-being required, the very experienced and highly trained hotel personnel, manifested in form of a chambermaid, realized that I was not on the official invitation list." Ilsa was gaining confidence. So far this didn't sound that unbelievable, did it?

_"You stumbled after him so bluntly, probably panicking that he was getting away, that you did something to raise suspicions… probably knock down a buffet table or accidentally push that chambermaid out of the way…" _Chance couldn't help but grin at the images that flashed up in his mind.

It had been the chocolate fountain, by the way.

"As is their duty, two staff members escorted me to a room in the basement and told me to wait for the fine men of the Gendarmerie to arrive – which I had every intention to do."

_"That intention"_, thought Chance, _"must somehow have changed shortly before you called me and asked how to build a bomb…" _

"Through some inexplicable and totally unexpected coincidence, however, an explosion blew a hole in the wall of said room in the basement. It was so intense that it set my dress on fire and I had no other choice but to extinguish the flames in the Danube. I believe I must have lost the necklace on my way to the water."

Chance rolled his eyes. _"You set yourself on fire with your own bomb? Didn't Baptiste tell you that with that kind of bomb you need to stay at least ten feet away?"_

"An inexplicable and totally unexpected coincidence…", Meierle repeated, tiny eyes giving Ilsa a look that said _"Well, I told you I like amusing stories…". _

"A short circuit maybe?", Ilsa suggested. "You never know with 18th century European building stock. The things they used to put in walls two centuries ago…not to mention the building's complete but very quickly executed restoration after 1945. The construction supervisor probably took a shortcut or two…"

The look on Guerrero's face indicated that they would put in some serious work on Ilsa's lying skills in the very near future.

"Mrs. Pucci, even if an during the building's restoration accidentally immured Second World War hand grenade had chosen exactly the moment of your imprisonment to explode I still would be convinced you stole that necklace." The insurance detective was completely unmoved.

"And why is that, Mr. Meierle?" Judging by her outward appearance, Ilsa was completely unmoved, too. If she had only been like that from the very beginning. In conning, there was no warm up phase….

"Because your accomplices are sitting all around you." He looked ostentatiously at Winston, Guerrero and Ames. "You all have been seen."

Just then the security system alerted them to another visitor. To Chance's utter surprise it was Philippa.

"I came to pick up my idiot son", she told him as he met her at the elevator. He would sent her and Ash downstairs with the freight elevator, so Meierle wouldn't see the boy and draw conclusions.

"Who told you…?"

"A concerned party", Philippa smiled, despite her obvious worries. "This is very serious, Chance. We need to sit down and decide what to do."

Chance nodded, but with a tilt of his head towards the conference room he also made it clear that at the moment it was not possible.

Philippa sighed. Chance was very important to Ash – how he dealt with the situation mattered a lot more to him than whatever she had to say. But she understood. It was no coincidence that in Chance's line of work a family and children were a rarity.

Quietly she collected a very sullen Ash.


	33. Chapter 33

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Meierle was still staring at the men, in a rather smug "I'm looking forward to hearing your version of the _story_"-way.

Winston, who had spent half his cop years at loggerheads with people who wore exactly that expression, harrumphed.

"As Mrs. Pucci pointed out…", he began.

"Didn't steal the necklace, dude."

Winston rolled his eyes heavenwards and turned towards Guerrero. "_You_ want to explain this? Fine, go ahead, explain!"

"No need to waste time with explanations – we didn't steal anything. Period."

"You really think being stubborn will solve this problem?", Winston exploded.

The expression on Guerrero's face indicated to everyone who knew him that he was already thinking of solving the Meierle problem with a more hands-on approach than mere talking.

A dive in the Bay, for example.

Or a visit to the lumber mill.

Choices, choices…

"As Mrs. Pucci already pointed out…", Winston began again.

"We were seen upstairs 'cause the musician from the band went upstairs. Needed to follow him. None of your business why."

"Are you trying to get on my nerves on purpose?", Winston snarled at Guerrero.

"Just trying to save us all some time and energy, dude."

The smug look on Detective Meierle's face had disappeared in the meantime. He was way too busy trying to make sense of the conversation between the two men, trying to figure out of what nature their relationship was. He had initially thought they were friends, but judging from their hostile back and forth…

At first Ilsa wanted to interfere, call both men to order – she was the boss here after all, wasn't she? – but a warning glance from Ames stopped her. It took Ilsa a moment, but then it dawned on her. An insurance detective puzzled by two men seeming to be good friends and mortal enemies at the same time was an insurance detective not contemplating too deeply the nature of her "security" business and not concentrating on nailing her for thievery.

"Long story short, the musician was fast and we were, for obvious reasons, not…" With a meaningful look in Winston's direction, Guerrero reached for the fruit basket Ilsa kept in the conference room and started munching on an apple.

"A stab at my weight now?" Winston seemed to be short of stomping out of the room. "What comes next, a baldie joke?"

"Interpreting every sentence as an insult to your physical appearance speaks of self-image issues, Winston. Ever considered counseling?" Guerrero finished off the apple and proceeded to a banana.

"The musician unexpectedly turned around and headed downstairs again, so we had to adjust our strategy. The most logical option called for us taking cover in an unoccupied hotel room", Winston continued his report, his expression threatening Guerrero with a violent death, should he interrupt again.

Guerrero grinned.

"So you admit breaking into a hotel room?", Meierle suddenly asked, and the way he asked, razor-sharp and to the point, made it very clear that they had only contemporarily managed to distract him. Ilsa clenched her teeth. This mole on legs was starting to get on her nerves… this issue, so shortly after the blown up perfumery disaster… she could already hear Connie disapproving her behavior via late night conference call…

Speaking of distraction… Maybe they could appeal to his more primal instincts? Ilsa wondered if it would somehow help if Ames took her shirt off.

"It's not B&E if the room is not locked", Winston snapped back. "And with our client's well being on the line…" He agreed with Ilsa, it was not good to let Meierle know the whole fuss had been about a violin. Somehow the Austrian detective didn't look the understanding type.

"Shortly after we had retreated to that room, however, a room maid came in", Winston continued. "We wanted to spare her the shock of meeting unexpected guests in what was supposed to be an empty room and thus…" Winston desperately struggled for an expression that would make what was going to come less ridiculous "…we hid outside on the window sill."

Ames, still typing on the laptop, arched an eyebrow at this part of Winston's explanation. She paused for a moment, cupped her hand in her chin and frowned. Then she suddenly came to life again and started typing faster than before.

"As Mrs. Pucci already pointed out, the hotel's staff is highly trained and very experienced." Winston hoped Meierle wouldn't inquire further.

"Meaning?"

Of course Meierle had caught his growing uneasiness.

"The maid closed the window."

Meierle started laughing. "So you were stuck on a small windowsill several floors above ground and couldn't get back in because the Kaiserhof's windows are equipped with security glass? How come we didn't collect you there?"

Both Winston and Guerrero fell quiet.

Totally, completely quiet, as in "I want a lawyer" quiet.

Meierle looked at them for a moment, studied them with gleaming mouse eyes, let them wander between the men, then shifted to Ilsa and finally rested them on…

"_She_ got you out!", he roared. "That little cat burglar you keep in your employ, Mrs. Pucci. She saved these manly man's men's asses!"

"In a _group effort_, we all made it to the back of the hotel, right at the waterfront, where the musician had fled after the explosion. There we…" Ames struggled a little with the appropriate word choice, too "…took care of the issue with our client."

Actually Winston and Guerrero had beaten the crap out of the man till they got the violin back and he was too thoroughly scared to ever even think of taking the violin again.

"You see? No time for stealing the countess' necklace", Ames quickly continued before Meierle could inquire further how they had "taken care" of the issue. "But I think I know who did…"

At this very moment, Chance came back into the room. The severe way his jaw was set indicated that he had just made a difficult decision. The others were a bit puzzled, but Guerrero knew immediately what was on Chance's mind. Ever since his son had been born he had been faced with the same conflict again and again. What to put first? Family or job?

This wasn't a simple question of either…or – as hard as Guerrero tried to keep both parts of his life separated, there _were_, as the Marshall Pucci-CIA debacle had proven, inevitable connections, interrelations, and with Chance constantly worrying about Ash's future development, this problem was even more acute.

Chance knew that Guerrero understood and shot his friend a grateful look before he sat down and tried to concentrate on the problem at hand again.


	34. Chapter 34

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Meierle tilted his head and looked at Ames with newly found interest and obvious amusement. "So while your colleagues attempted to throw me off their trails with a couple of more or less cleverly fabricated stories, you have chosen to try the classic approach of putting the blame on someone else? Now I'm intrigued."

Guerrero tried to estimate Meierle's weight, which would determine how heavy the stones had to be that would keep his body underwater for a while.

Chance considered giving his buddy at TSC a call – Meierle definitely deserved an entry on the No Fly List. Or at least a bit of SSSS…

Ilsa wondered if Mr. Meierle had always paid his taxes correctly… she had an acquaintance at Austria's version of the IRS…

Winston contemplated how the detective would react to a thorough car inspection by SFPD… complete with drug-sniffing dog and a bit of tasering maybe? He was a foreigner, they could always refer to Homeland Security regulations…

"Hate to tell you, but you've fallen for the oldest trick in the book", Ames replied, the smile on her face indicating that she didn't hate this at all.

Meierle snorted.

"Have you ever attended a magic show? Those guys with the tigers… where one almost got eaten a couple of years ago… Siegfried and Roy … they are Austrians, aren't they?"

"Germans", the detective grumbled.

Ames didn't quite see the difference, and it didn't really matter anyway. "Ever wondered how they made their animals disappear? All those huge beasts?"

"I have to give you credit, so far I have no idea where this is going, Ms. Ames." Of course Meierle knew Ames' name. He had probably even obtained her Juvi records somehow… Damn, the guy was good.

"Distraction. Now you see it, now you don't. The audience stares at some flashy effect while in the meantime the wheels for the next big trick are set in motion."

Guerrero realized where she was heading and gave Ames an appreciative arch of his eyebrow – _Not bad, dude. _

The detective, however, was starting to lose his patience. "I'm sorry, Ms. Ames, but I still don't see…"

"Ilsa, who helped you up after you … had no choice but to knock down the chocolate fountain?"

Ilsa sighed as she relived this rather embarrassing moment – she had been watching the musician so intensely while trying to stay part of the crowd… the fountain had somehow just appeared… finest Austrian chocolate all over the summer dress' light beige silk chiffon with pastel borders and Brussels lace. A bustle had been used to accentuate the backside and bloody hell, had it been difficult to get up again with that thing hampering her range of movement. If she hadn't had help by...

"The room maid. The one who reported me as an intruder. She helped me to my feet." Ilsa's eyes widened as it dawned on her what Ames was aiming at.

"It was the same room maid that locked you two out on the window sill, wasn't it?" Ames' question was directed at Winston and Guerrero, but she didn't really wait for them to reply. Apparently she already knew the answer.

Chance couldn't help but feel pride at the way she was pulling this off, standing up to that detective… She had truly grown into a wonderful woman… They needed to talk about that moment in the cavern, shortly before the firemen had come in…

He sighed. Another problem that apparently couldn't wait till tomorrow…

"Funny coincidence, isn't it? But you gave it no thought because we're the ones with the checkered past and we made so much more noise that evening in Vienna." Ames shot Meierle a challenging look.

"Seriously, Ms. Ames, you really want to tell me that a harmless room maid spotted Mrs. Pucci's necklace, all of a sudden devised a complicated heist and decided to become a criminal? Aren't you overdoing the "Opportunity makes the thief" concept a bit here?"

"I think the room maid planned from the very beginning to steal the necklace", Ames retorted. "I took a look at the Kaiserhof's duty roster that night. She was not scheduled to appear. She had no business being at the ball or upstairs nosing around the guest's rooms."

She hesitated for a moment and her face became shadowed with the remnants of a dark memory. "See, this necklace…" She tapped at the plastic bag that contained Ilsa's replica. "This kind of jewelry is so special, it's basically unsalable. Jewelry is meant to be worn in public, you can't wear hot jewelry at a public event, so who would want to buy it? The person who stole it must have wanted it for personal reasons, not because of money."

It was the way her tone of voice changed that made all team members look up. Whatever she was going to say, it was somehow close to home. Ames opened a website on the notebook and showed it to them on the conference room's monitor. "This here is Countess Brunswik Whatever's late husband. He died last year after a severe heart attack. And this here is the room maid."

She didn't need to explain more – the similarities between the young woman and the elderly man where obvious, despite the huge age gap.

"Count and countess used to attend the ball at the Kaiserhof every year. Apparently the count enjoyed more than just waltz music… the necklace is a family heirloom – the illegitimate daughter wanted a piece of her family, that's why she took it."

"You concluded all that from the few clues in your colleagues' stories?", Meierle asked, shaking his head in disbelief.

Ames shrugged, and her team members knew exactly what that shrug meant. _It's what I would have done._

"Go and check it out", she told him.

There was something about the atmosphere in the room that Meierle couldn't quite put a finger on. Something had changed, it felt as if the people had somewhat closed ranks.

Well, despite all his thorough research, he didn't know about Ames' bastard of a father and the terrible events surrounding her half-brother's death.

"You should leave now", Ilsa told him firmly, and the way the three men looked at him made it clear that he better heeded her suggestion.

Guerrero escorted Meierle to the elevator. "Check thoroughly, dude", he told him and suddenly the detective couldn't wait for the elevator doors to close behind him.


	35. Chapter 35

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

After Meierle's departure Chance would have had time to go to Philippa's and discuss Ash's latest transgression. And he had all intentions to do so.

But then he decided maybe he should take a shower first, to cool down and clear his head. After that he thought maybe he should eat something before leaving, an empty stomach surely wouldn't enhance his ability to discuss the recent developments reasonably and calmly. Initially he planned to just grab a toast or an apple, but a complete dinner would probably be better, wouldn't it? So he quickly fixed himself potatoes with bacon and, for good measure, fried egg.

In the end Philippa called and told him she had had a long discussion with Ash regarding weapons, he had promised not to touch one again and he was grounded for a week without TV, internet or dating. No ice-hockey either.

Chance knew it would have been better if he had taken part in that discussion. Of course it would have. But somehow he was also relieved. He had been so angry with Ash – still was, truth to be told – he would have surely lost it again. He had to admit, Ilsa, Winston and Guerrero were right, dressing Ash down wasn't helping anyone, but the thought of his son firing a gun… the mere idea drove him mad and he just couldn't be reasonable about this.

In the evening Meierle called – he had good news. The Viennese police had talked to the room maid. She had broken down during interrogation after they presented her a photo of the count and pointed out several similarities, for example the color of the eyes and an unusual shape of the ears they both had in common. They didn't even need a DNA test. She confessed taking the necklace and explained that she hadn't wanted to drag her mother's name in the dirt by suing the countess for part of the inheritance. She claimed that she had always managed to make ends meet on her own and that she didn't need the bastard's money who had known she existed and never cared. Taking the necklace had been her way of getting back at him.

On a positive note, the countess had, when she heard about her husband's illegitimate daughter, immediately dropped all charges. She was already planning a function, a ball maybe, to officially introduce the room maid to her circle of society as a family member. "After my husband's death I was so lost", she had explained to Meierle. "Now I've been given a child. Suddenly everything makes sense again."

Emma dropped by unexpectedly not long after Chance had hung up with Meierle. "I think we should celebrate our reunion", she suggested. "I'd like to invite you all to dinner. I'm not a great cook, I know, but I attended a cooking course in Washington and – without wanting to pat myself on the back – my apple cranberry stuffed pork roast is quite spectacular."

Since the team had stuck around the office after Meierle's visit, a bit – although nobody would have admitted it openly – anxious to see how things would develop (thank God the Austrian policemen had taken his phone call seriously and hauled the room maid in for a very early morning interview!) the offer was tempting. Even Chance, who had already eaten, was not averse to accepting her invitation. But on the other hand… there was the issue with Ames…

He had turned tail once today already…

"You've never seen Casablanca, haven't you?", he quietly told her. "What about a DVD evening? I can fix some food."

Ames' eyes lit up at the prospect. "I'm sorry, but I've got other plans", she told Emma.

Chance followed suit, of course.

"Mr. Guerrero and I have to go over some expense accounts of his", Ilsa informed Emma not too politely.

That left Winston. He, however, mumbled something about already having an appointment, too. Guerrero arched an eyebrow at this, but he let go, he was way more curious about the meeting Ilsa had so suddenly set up, without his knowledge. He followed her out of the team's sight, to the back area of the office.

It wasn't difficult to follow the distinctive click-clack of her high heels, but where the hell was she going? Suddenly the sounds stopped. Frowning, Guerrero looked around, took a few steps more… She jumped at him.

Of course he could have easily thwarted the attack, heavens, the high heels alone slowed her down enough to pose no threat whatsoever, but instead he allowed her to throw him against the wall. This was way too interesting.

"I'm not going to wait another night", she hissed, trembling from the effort of pressing him against the wall and something else, too.

They took the freight elevator downstairs.

Emma had no choice but to leave, making light of the situation ("Well, maybe next week then…"), but actually quite devastated. This dinner had been a vital part of her plan, damnit! She needed to think of something else…

Chance fixed Ames sandwiches, tons of. She thought he'd never come out of the kitchen again. When he sat down on the sofa, he did so on the other end – he could have only put more space between them by perching on the armrest.

This was definitely not the way she had thought the evening would go. For a while they sat in silence and watched Casablanca. Ames didn't touch the sandwiches.

"Any reason you chose a movie in which a woman decides to put her personal joy on the backburner for the greater good?", she finally asked.

"You're wonderful", Chance replied, barely audible. "I love you."

Ames' heart skipped a beat – she hadn't imagined it! - but the look on his face was so dark…

"Everyone I ever loved…" His voice was nothing more than a whisper.

"Katherine died?", she asked, just as quietly.

He nodded, confirming what she had already feared.

She felt like choking on the words, but in the end she said them. "I understand."

For a moment nobody moved, nobody said another word. Then he slid towards her a bit and she inched closer to him. He pulled her into his arms and held her, while they kept watching the movie. After a while Ames grabbed a sandwich and started munching on it.

… … …

When Ilsa woke up, she was alone. But there was light downstairs. Shivering a bit, she clambered out of the empty bed and padded into her living-room, where she found Guerrero working on his laptop. She was quite sure she didn't want to see what he was working on, but he wrapped an arm around her hip and pulled her onto his lap.

"You're shivering", he observed, and breathed warm air against her spine.

"What are you doing?", she asked, intrigued by the newspaper articles he apparently had been reading.

"Emma created quite a mess in Washington before she left… wonder why she's still with the Bureau…"


	36. mousetrap

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ mousetrap ~ **_

"Dad, come on, this is serious! Was her name Kelly or Sally?"

Ash had gotten remarkably well over the fact that Tiffany had given him a piece of her mind after he had had to cancel their date for the second time.

Getting increased attention from two members of the cheerleader squad at once had surely helped with that, especially since his week of being grounded would end by tomorrow, he'd be allowed to play ice-hockey again _and _during the next game he'd be able to show off in front of whatever young lady had called this afternoon.

The only obstacle now was that he wasn't quite sure whom to call back, thanks to his Dad being the world's worst answering machine…

Chance hid his mischievous grin behind the newest newspaper edition.

"You should give them numbers, dude…", Guerrero suggested. He had spread out some sort of complicated looking technical device on the kitchen table and was apparently busy assembling the different parts. His son, meanwhile, was inspecting Carmine's ears and paws with a level of concentration that only kids his age could muster up. Guerrero rarely brought him to the office, but the boy's mother had an important appointment today and he was, come what may, on babysitting duty.

"You think that could work?", Ash asked with genuine interest, grabbing another one of the homemade chocolate chip cookies that FBI friend of his father's, Agent Barnes, had brought by. If he kept wolfing them down at that rate, there wouldn't be any left for the adults.

Only fair, Ash figured.

They had made him hide the whole time the agent had been around. She didn't know he existed and everybody was determined to keep it that way.

Sigh.

How had Isu called it? The RULES.

Guerrero arched an amused eyebrow in reply to Ash's number question and kept working on the device.

His son was lightly tugging at Carmine's ears now and although the big dog was tolerating the kid's exploring hands with all the patience anyone could ask for, Ash decided it was time to give him something else to do.

"Come on, Hombre, what about a cookie?", he asked, lifting the boy off the floor and placing him on the worktop. "Is it okay if I give him a cookie, Guerrero?"

Ash reached for the cookie bowl, with one hand holding on to the child so it wouldn't fall off the furniture. Slightly limited in his range of movement now, he had trouble getting the bowl and it took him a moment till he managed to grasp the rim.

Guerrero absent-mindedly grumbled his consent.

"What are you doing there anyway?", Chance inquired, lowering his newspaper and nodding in the direction of the now apparently completed device on the table.

"Whatever you're doing, put it away now, I want to fix some food", Winston grumpily addressed Guerrero as he came stomping in, followed suit by Ames and Ilsa. Judging from the bulging paper bags in their arms, they had paid the Fillmore Farmers' Market an extensive visit. Ilsa had said something about wanting to make sure that the team ate better.

She was also still working on periodical check-ups of the team members by a proper doctor, but so far all she had managed to establish were regular veterinary visits for Carmine.

Ash glanced at the leeks and lettuce peeking out of one of the bags and decided to quickly polish off another cookie, before someone could utter any of that "not before dinner" nonsense.

Guerrero's son stared daggers at him. That cookie had been meant for HIM! Ash made small, placating noises and reached to get a cookie for the indignant child.

"A minute, dude… It's time for the monthly bug sweep and Rahul said this was state of the art…Reacts to all sorts of transmitters." The explanation was more for Chance than for Winston. Guerrero switched the device on.

It began beeping madly.

Everyone was still "What the hell…?", while Guerrero already…

"Ash, FREEZE!", he yelled, pointing the small machine at him.

"What in the world…?" This didn't make any sense to Ash, but on the other hand he had been living in the office long enough by now to know that Guerrero's orders were meant to be followed.

Immediately.

He froze in mid-motion, right before finally giving Hombre his cookie. The child cried out in protest.

Guerrero got up and walked over to the two, pointing the device straight at Ash, then at the cookie in his hand, then back at Ash. The beeping grew louder.

"That damn bitch…", he hissed.

"What is going on?" Ash demanded to know.

"Miniature trackers? Like in the Russo case? Hidden in the cookies?", Chance asked, his face suddenly a mask of stone.

Wordlessly Guerrero showed him the tracking device's display. Winston and the others could see it, too. The readout was unambiguous.

Oh Emma….

"Hang on a second, that FBI friend of yours put mini trackers in the cookies and I _ate_ them?" Now Ash was genuinely shocked.

"Don't worry, they're not poisonous or anything…", Chance replied, his eyes never leaving Guerrero. Anger was boiling inside him, too, jeez, trackers inside his son… But Guerrero and what he would do next was more urgent right now.

"You know what that means, dude." Guerrero switched off the device and put it on the table.

They all knew what it meant.

Ash had almost fed a cookie with a tracker to _Guerrero's son_. The child would have been dragged into whatever devious plan Emma had thought out.

She had put his safety at risk…

The last person who had dared threatening his kid….

They all knew what had become of the ElDo.

And his last passenger…

Guerrero looked at Ilsa. She swallowed hard but didn't say a word. There was sadness in her eyes, deep sadness, but no fear.

Test passed… She had really accepted him the way he was.

He turned and walked past them, out of the kitchen, towards the elevator. Nobody stopped him.

Nobody could have anyway.

The die had fallen. This was going to be the end of Emma.


	37. Chapter 37

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**A/N: Big thanks, as always, to niagaraweasel, my indispensable beta weasel. Big thanks also to mvignal, who pointed out some important aspects regarding the eaten cookies – by the way, she has just debuted with the first chapter of a very interesting Guerrero story, "Conjecture of the Paradigm" in the M section, check it out, it's a promising beginning! **_

They listened to Guerrero's retreating footsteps, the ding of the elevator, the swoosh as it moved downstairs…

The silence in the kitchen was almost palpable. It was as if someone had opened a window, not to the clement climate of San Francisco but to some eternally frozen arctic landscape. Icy winter's mist seemed to have come creeping into the room like the cold breath of a ghost.

Ash bit his lips. His head was spinning from a million questions, the most important being "What is he going to do? He looked so…determined. What will he do to the agent?"

But he was also very much aware of the fact that actually asking those questions was not an option.

"Trust me, with Guerrero, it's better not to know too much." Something Winston had told him, more than a year ago… and he had taken that advice to heart.

Call it an instinct thing.

"It would be better if you spent the evening at your mother's", Chance told Ash, finally breaking the silence.

Ash could only nod. Whatever was going on here, it was giving him the creeps. This was serious. More serious than the gun thing or even the wrecked car.

He didn't dare put it into a clear thought, but as much as he tried to shake it off, he could feel the truth.

Death was in the air.

In a way he had always guessed that Guerrero … was capable of bad things… Not sure what to make of all this, what to make of Guerrero, of his father's friendship with Guerrero, of the nature of his father's crew, he let himself be driven home.

His mother, of course, immediately sensed something was off, but he didn't tell her. Maybe he was imagining things after all…

… … …

The most humanitarian thing would have been to simply kill her, like a bolt out of the blue, before she could sense it coming. Getting into the house she had rented was easy enough, all he had needed to do was get in there, finish her off and leave again.

But with his son's wellbeing on the line, "humanity" wasn't high on his priority list.

This kind of thing touched on the very core of his existence. Living the life that he had chosen meant that clinging to too many things wasn't an option. It was a life that included constant good-byes, to things, places, people.

Once, however, he had decided to let something into his heart, he was willing to protect it fiercely.

Chance fell under that definition.

And, of course, his son.

His child in danger awoke a side of him that he usually kept well under control. He had almost let it take over after he had been framed for the murder of his friend, Jerry. The bastard who had been behind everything would have lost his sight and more, hadn't he been saved at the last moment by the arriving police cars.

The CIA agent, however, hadn't been so lucky.

And now Emma…

When she got home, he was sitting in her kitchen, gun at the ready.

"Kneel down", he told her as she stood frozen by the door, face pale as a sheet. She knew immediately what had happened – he had discovered the trackers. Good lord.

"You can't do this, not just like that, what will Chance…?", she sputtered out hectically.

"He knows." Guerrero raised his hand so he was directly aiming at her forehead and she quickly dropped to her knees.

"Look, I'm sorry, I'm terribly sorry, I shouldn't have done that…"

Guerrero stepped behind her.

"There's something you need to know!", she screamed.

… … …

When Chance arrived back at the office, the others were still in the kitchen, actually cooking, of all things. The silence still hung heavily in the air, even enhanced, if that was possible, by the clicking, cracking, hissing sounds the various pots and pans produced.

Still nobody said a word. Heavens, they all knew how dangerous Guerrero was, they knew he didn't exactly share Chance's "nobody deserves to die" philosophy, but this was different…

This was Emma…

"Wouldn't it have been better to somehow get the trackers out of Ash?", Ilsa finally asked. "I don't know, make him vomit or something?"

Chance shook his head. He had thought about it, but since Guerrero… was putting a very final stop on whatever Emma had been planning, there was no need to put Ash through that kind of ordeal. The trackers would stay in his system for about a week and then slowly dissolve.

When the elevator dinged without security alert, they all jumped, even Chance. What in the world…? Only Guerrero could get in and out with the alert system staying mum, drove Winston nuts, he had tried numerous times to figure out how he did it, where he had manipulated the thing, all in vain, of course.

Guerrero? Back so fast? Had he changed his mind after all?

Unlikely.

Had he forgotten something?

Just as unlikely. Guerrero could kill you with his bare hands if necessary.

And then they heard a muffled cry and the shuffling of feet. He was not alone.

Emma?

Ames pressed her hand against her mouth. Ilsa started shaking. No. Not here. This was too much.

"Chance…" Winston was breathing heavily. He knew this was about Guerrero's son, but Guerrero was now crossing a line…

Chance nodded. This was not tolerable. He had to stop him. Pressing his lips together, he left the kitchen. The others looked at each other for a short moment… and followed him. They couldn't let him face an outraged Guerrero alone.

No way.

To their utter surprise, they found Guerrero outside the office's guest bathroom. With a shotgun slung over his shoulder. No sign of Emma.

Huh?

Before anyone could ask what the hell he was doing, however, Emma called from the inside: "Done."

"Push it through the crack underneath the door", Guerrero snarled.

Scraping on the floor, then a small white piece of plastic appeared. Guerrero picked it up and studied it.

Was that… a pregnancy test?

"See?" Emma's muffled voice from inside the bathroom. "It's positive!"

"You just saved yourself from a dive in the Bay", Guerrero replied calmly and unlocked the door.

Maybe more because the situation was so absurd than because of any probable cause, Ilsa and Ames both turned around, staring daggers at Chance. He hectically raised his hands in defense: "I swear I've got nothing to do with it!"

The door opened and revealed Emma, looking terribly shaken.

With a nod Guerrero directed her out of the bathroom and made her walk down the corridor till she reached the lobby, where Winston pulled up a chair. Another nod and Emma was sitting down. Then, however, Guerrero handed the shotgun to Chance and walked into the kitchen. For a moment everyone was confused, then they heard the tell-tale rattling of cutlery on porcelain.

Ah yes, of course.

He came back with a plate full of steaming food.

"Start talking, dude."


	38. Chapter 38

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"The father is a friend's husband… I made a really stupid mistake…" Emma was sniveling, but nobody felt inclined to give her a handkerchief. Finally Chance stepped in.

"Seems to becoming a habit lately", Ilsa commented her explanation, not a hint of sympathy in her voice.

_Let me guess, you were drunk and lonely?_ Was what Ames initially wanted to say, but she stopped herself at the last moment, actually clasping her mouth with her hand. _Jeez, Ames, Chance AND Ilsa are around, you really want to send them on another guilt trip? And what if they come up with some sort of who are we to throw the first stone-philosophy? That bitch doesn't deserve understanding, definitely not! _

"Skip to the interesting part, dude. We already know you're pretty good at messing up things. Why the trackers?" The meal they had cooked obviously found Guerrero's appreciation. He was already half-way through his portion.

Winston started pulling up chairs for all of them. So far they had been standing around Emma in a mixture of relief, shock, anger and astonishment.

Only Guerrero remained leaning against the wall, shoveling food into his mouth as if he hadn't eaten for days. Ilsa couldn't help but wonder – was he relieved, too?

Chance was sitting a little apart from the others. At first Ames wondered if he was somewhat angry with Guerrero for the whole killing Emma issue since he was sitting furthest away from him. Then she realized it was a strategic position: Between the two she had no chance to escape, even if she somehow managed to get past Winston.

Never underestimate FBI training.

"The baby is the reason I tried to…" Emma hesitated, swallowed, than decided it didn't matter anyway "…con you."

"Yeah, blame it on the unborn…", Ames scoffed.

"I made this stupid mistake back in Washington… A raid not going quite as planned…"

"Habit. Obviously." Ilsa got up to get herself something to eat, too.

"They wanted to fire me! I needed to do something! How am I supposed to support the baby without a proper job?"

Even Chance now rolled his eyes.

"Well, you'll somehow have to, because you're definitely not staying with the Bureau", Guerrero munched, then went to join Ilsa in the kitchen.

"What…? What are you going to do?" Emma's eyes widened as a couple of different horror scenarios regarding her career sprung up in her imagination.

"First the rest of the story, dude!", came the muffled reply from the kitchen area and then the sound of the oven being opened and closed. "What were you planning?"

Winston decided he needed to get some food, too, before Ilsa and Guerrero finished it off between them. He waited, however, till Guerrero returned, to keep Emma safely positioned between them.

"I was only after Guerrero…" Even to Emma's ears, this sounded idiotic, considering how tight-knit this group was. And judging from Chance's face… he was angry… she remembered the night in Washington, when he had told her about that woman he had failed to protect… Kitty? Kessy? Whatever… Emma realized that her behavior was probably very disappointing to him, on far more than simply a professional level. He had trusted her with something very personal… She closed her eyes, face burning. How in the world had she managed to end this deep in trouble?

"Neither Bureau nor CIA could nail you with anything, so I had the idea to make you commit a crime and have you arrested for that…", she continued, eyes still closed. The look on Chance's face… in a way so much worse than the gun in Guerrero's hand earlier. "The trackers were supposed to help me find you, should you manage to escape…"

Impatient tapping on the arm of a chair made Emma open her eyes again. Chance was gone, judging from the sounds coming from the kitchen, he was getting something to eat now. Ah yes, and there he was, with two plates. Two plates? Was he maybe remembering that she hadn't eaten anything for hours and that she was having to feed someone else, too?

No. He handed the plate to Ames, who had produced that enervating tapping sound. "What were you planning?", she hissed, then gratefully accepted the plate from Chance.

Was there something going on between the two? Emma felt a pang of jealousy.

Suddenly someone grabbed the chair she was sitting on and tilted it backwards. Guerrero, no plate in hands, his face so close, she could smell the food he had just eaten on his breath. "You're playing with your future here, Emma. So far I'm only going to get you fired…"

"I planned to make you break into United States Penitentiary ADX Florence in Colorado to free G. Brax' younger brother, B. Brax…", Emma hectically explained.

Guerrero put the chair back on his four legs, his face grave as from a funeral.

G. Brax.

Even Ilsa knew the name – Brax controlled whole countries in Asia and Africa. He was extremely dangerous. Marshall once had tried to mess with some of his henchmen in Lithuania and the Foundation had ended up having to pay bribe money to free some of their employees. Marshall's biggest defeat.

"Bloody hell, you don't do things by half, do you?", she blurted out.

"I thought if I inform G. Brax about a Washington snitch in his organization you'll want to protect that snitch, Grunnit is his name, he's got kids and a sick wife… and the only way to get someone out of Brax' claws is to barter with him, so you would have no choice but to break in there and at that very moment…" Emma spoke very fast, hoping in vain that she would feel less sneaky and ungrateful if she did so.

Stunned silence for a long moment. This was evil.

It was Chance who finally spoke up, the first time he said anything since she had sat down. "But you never got past the first step of the plan, the tracking cookies, did you?", he asked.

Emma took a deep breath. "Actually…"

Only now she realized that this particular information would not go down well with Chance.

"I sent Brax an e-mail about an hour before I went home…"

Every muscle in Chance's body seemed to tense, like a tiger's right before jumping at something. "And you're telling us only _now_? That Grunnit and his family… You put their lives in danger!"

"Hell, HE was pointing a gun at me!", she tried to defend herself, twisting to nod in the direction of Guerrero. "It kind of slipped my mind!"

Ilsa quickly took out her mobile and started dialing. This definitely required the jet. At the same time Guerrero was trying to reach a contact of his in Washington. "The name, Emma. Now", he told her.

"Looks like we've got a case", Ames put the plate aside and got up to get a gun.


	39. Chapter 39

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"Don't scream! I'm a friend!", Ames told the children, very well aware of the fact that with the blood streaming from her forehead and the shotgun slung around her shoulder, she looked everything but like a friend. The younger of the two children started wailing in a low, heartbreaking tone. The older one was shuddering all over.

"I know things are bad at the moment, but everything will be alright again", she made another attempt to calm the children. Outside the cellar they had retreated to apparently someone was trying to force the door open with something very heavy. When the door started cracking, both girls began to cry loudly for their parents.

"They'll have to go through me first", Ames promised and released her gun's safety catch.

… … …

"Who tells me you're not one of them?", Grunnit's wife screamed at Winston.

"Seriously, what choice do you have?", Winston asked, shielding her as best as he could with his Kevlar vest protected body as he more or less dragged her from one car providing cover to the next, a hail of bullets going down on them the whole time.

"What about my children?", she yelled in his ear as he had no choice but to throw her flat to the ground.

"They're in good hands!", Winston yelled back, ice spreading in his stomach. He had lost contact to Ames ten minutes ago.

… … …

"Hate to tell you, bro, but that exit is blocked, too." Guerrero crouched next to Chance who was doing his best to stop the bleeding in Grunnit's abdomen. Judging from the speed with which he was losing blood, he would be beyond rescue in a couple of minutes.

"What about the roof? We could draw attention with a fire. Some good citizen might call 911." Chance wiped his bloody hands on his trousers, not so much for cleanliness than to gain a tighter grip on his gun.

Guerrero shook his head. The roof was no option either.

Damn, Brax' people were good.

… … …

"You wouldn't shoot me anyway", Emma told Ilsa. "If Guerrero doesn't do it, none of you will."

"Do you think it's wise, provoking me like that?", Ilsa asked, making sure to position the gun on the table within her easy reach, right where Emma could see it. The mere fact that she was armed and Emma wasn't amused the hell out of her.

Well, yeah, as amusing as a situation could be in which she had lost contact to all team members. The earpieces had gone dead one by one during the last few minutes, all in the context of shootouts, as it seemed.

Emma was right, though. Unless her life depended on it, she wouldn't kill her and, more importantly, the unborn child. Ilsa felt a slight pang of something, not really jealousy, more sadness, that Emma, who had screwed up so many times, was now getting something that had always been denied to Marshall and her.

The idea of ... reproducing ... with Guerrero was simply absurd. They hadn't talked about it, but the last two years of working with the team had taught her very thoroughly that children, with parents in this line of business, provided a constant source of worries of the life and death kind.

Even if Guerrero decided to leave it all behind from one day to the next, his child would still be in danger. The thirst for revenge is a flame that burns long and the past always comes catching up with you – some other lessons learned... She needed to accept the fact that some things just weren't meant to be and in a way she already had. Only when someone shoved it in her face, like Emma had done with her damn pregnancy test... Ah well, there were more urgent problems at hand.

Guerrero had left the gun with her for protection alright, but not exactly against Emma, who was securely tied to a chair Guerrero had bolted to the floor - explaining that to the hotel manager would be an ordeal... and she would surely not just cover the damage with a carpet, as he had suggested… Ilsa stopped herself.

She was letting her thoughts go astray, apparently trying not to go crazy with worries about the rest of the team. Brax people were very, very dangerous…

STOP.

She needed to FOCUS. Taking a deep breath, Ilsa picked up the phone again and dialed. "Is Mr. Kendrick available now?", she asked the maid she had already talked to, twice.

"Ilsa…" A male voice, very cultivated and yet oddly croaking when it came to words with low vowels. Unmistakably, Warren Kendrick, head lawyer of the Marshall Pucci Foundation.

Ilsa couldn't remember that she was on a first name basis with him. And since Kendrick had a very good memory… what was he implying?

"Dr. Kendrick" Ilsa hoped he understood what _she_ was implying "if I remember correctly you were directly involved in the negotiations regarding three kidnapped employees of the Foundation. I need to get in contact with the negotiating party, G. Brax, as fast as possible, and I believe you can provide the necessary data."

Long, ill-boding silence. Finally:

"Ilsa, you're not chairing the Foundation's board of directors anymore. In fact you're not even part of the board. I'm pretty sure it would be against protocol – a protocol _you_ once helped to develop and approved, if I may remind you…"

Ilsa took a deep breath. Oh great, he wanted to play politics. Right now. While the life of the client was on the line. His family's. THE TEAM'S…

"Cut the crap, Warren."

Silence again, this time of the shocked kind – she had dared to talk back. _And_ she had used an Americanism!

Ilsa didn't give him a chance to recover: "You are forgetting that I'm still Ilsa Pucci. I'm friends with Senator Elroy, industrial magnate Tompkins, media tycoon Raggerty… what do you think would all this people – clients of your son's law firm, if I may remind you – say if I told them that the Kendrick family's disloyalty ruined a project of mine and cost me a significant amount of money?"

Kendrick gave her the data.

… … …

Guerrero had taught Ames the hard way to count how many times she shot and to always know how many bullets she had left.

Very valuable advice. Thanks to it she now knew that nothing but five bullets separated her and the kids from certain death.

… … …

Winston had been in a couple of difficult situations before, but this one… They had them cornered. And they were too many.

"Please tell me that my children are safe. Please tell me that they're not in the same situation", Grunnit's wife kept repeating in an infinite loop.

He had told her exactly that, several times, but she either didn't believe him (and given their situation, who could seriously blame her?) or she was so deep in shock, she wasn't listening.

Winston reached out and placed a hand on her shaking shoulder.

"Help will come", he said. What did a lie matter if it made her feel better?

…in what was most likely going to be the last few moments of her life.

… … …

"Explosion might work", Guerrero nodded. "Or might blow us to pieces."

"He won't make it much longer." Chance cautiously moved Grunnit, tried to make breathing a little easier for him.

"Worth a try", Guerrero agreed.

… … …

"I don't see what you could offer me, Mrs. Pucci. Money is of no interest to me when it comes to traitors." Brax' thick Portuguese accent made his smug voice even more unbearable.

"Something money can't buy you…" Ilsa hated making a dramatic pause here, she was running out of time, but if she managed to get his attention now, her next words would have more impact. And she needed them to make impact.

"Now I'm intrigued…" He said it mockingly, but there was a hint of genuine interest in his tone.

"We can get your brother out of prison."


	40. Chapter 40

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**A/N: Thank you, mvignal, for providing insight on the organization of a supermax!**_

Emma sighed. "Quite a mess your mum has created, hm?"

After the first wave of anger right after discovering her "condition" had passed, Emma had slowly become adjusted to the fact that very soon her life would take a whole new turn. By now actually talking to the baby when alone had become sort of a habit.

Ilsa had left the room for a moment, probably to talk to Brax.

Sly British bitch. She didn't want her to listen in, give her no chance to develop a plan that would fulfill her obligations with the FBI after all.

_Well, too late, Thatcher. I've already thought of something. And there's no way you or the others could stop me. It's a perfect plan. _

"Mum is going to get her life back", Emma told the baby. "She's going to restore her career and you and I won't have to worry about a thing."

Of course it was way too early to know what it would be, but she somehow had the feeling it would be a girl.

"I've got to warn you, I'm quite good at that… getting myself into trouble. I don't really mean to, you know? It just happens…." She placed her cuffed hands on her stomach as far as it was possible and spread her fingers.

"You're in for quite a ride…"

Despite the perfect plan Emma felt like crying. All this tricking and twisting… This was definitely not the way she had hoped things would turn out, back when she had decided to join the Bureau.

Jeez, so many years ago. She had dreamed quite big back then. And now she was this close to getting fired… of course, the plan, she was not going to get fired, but still… She felt sorry that she would have to throw Chance to the wolves. And Winston. On the other hand, she now had someone who depended on her, totally. She needed her job with the FBI, now more than ever.

"But don't worry, no matter what happens, I'll make sure you'll be alright. Always. I promise."

Be it a boy or a girl, Emma decided, she would definitely call it Angel.

Angel Barnes.

She gently stroked her stomach in slow circles.

… … …

At first Ames thought she had imagined it, but then the children stopped crying and she realized it was true – No more ominous sounds from the door. The attack had ceased.

… … …

"Shhht. Shhht. Be silent for a moment, will you?" Winston was tempted to put his hand over the wife's mouth. Of course she was worried about her children, but he needed to hear for a moment, for heaven's sake!

When she didn't react, he had no choice but to slap her.

Never ever had he hit a woman. The slap became a strong touch to her face halfway through. He just couldn't do it. But at least he got through to her.

"The attack has ceased!", he told her, still not quite believing it himself.

"Can we now get my children?", she asked.

… … …

Silence had fallen on the place and it hadn't gone unnoticed. Chance and Guerrero wordlessly looked at each other.

Chance nodded appreciatively.

_She has pulled it off. You taught her well. _

A smile, thin, but genuine, appeared on Guerrero's face.

_No teaching this time, dude. She stood her ground, all by herself. _

Now it was Chance's turn to smile, dying client, bloody hands, grave danger and all.

_Proud of your girl, hm?_ that smile said.

_Don't overdo it, dude._

… … …

Ilsa had told Brax they knew how to get his brother out of the maximum security prison.

To be honest, that was not exactly the truth.

There was a reason Brax hadn't gotten his brother out himself.

They didn't call it "supermax" for nothing…

And if someone like Brax shied away from something…

The blunt truth was, they had a few vague ideas about how to get his brother out of prison. Calling it a "plan" would have been stretching it.

A lot.

"Bribe is out of the question", Guerrero decided. "They catch you with that, Ilsa, and it's over. Not only for you, you'd drag the Foundation down, too."

Ilsa looked up, surprised. She hadn't expected him to take that into consideration.

"Inmates are kept in solitary 22-23 hours of the day. Maybe an altered Westpoint version?", Chance suggested, cautiously cleaning Ames' head wound.

"If the fake ID doesn't hold… and they check thoroughly…" Ames hissed as the antiseptic came in contact with her open flesh.

"We poison the dude."

Winston rolled his eyes at Guerrero. "I'm not sure if you grasped the concept – the basic idea is to placate Brax, not to make him even madder."

"The idea is not bad… a Dr. Crippen…" Chance finished patching up Ames. "Get some rest", he told her quietly.

"For heaven's sake! You are inventing those names randomly!", Winston accused the two. "Eight years of working together and you've never mentioned a Dr. Crippen before!"

"We're going to pressurize one of the prison infirmary's doctors to poison Brax' brother so that the symptoms indicate some major health issue. They put him in an ambulance, we ambush the ambulance", Ilsa explained matter-of-factly.

Wide-eyed, Winston turned to her: "How the…?"

Ilsa shrugged. _You don't want to know the occasion Guerrero told me that…_, said the look on her face.

… … …

Emma had heard that the team was back and she had also heard them talking, but hadn't been able to make out what exactly they were saying. All she could perceive were muffled voices. When the door to the room was suddenly opened, she jumped.

As much as she could… she was still securely tied to the chair.

Guerrero came walking in, strolled right past her and started rummaging around in one of the suitcases on the other end of the room.

The other team members came filing in, too.

"You're probably already late in contacting your FBI buddies and letting them know that you're alright", Guerrero said, put up a couple of electronic devices on the bed and connected them to the telephone.

Emma felt like cursing loudly. Damn it! They knew about that stipulation. But that was not a problem – they would have to let her talk to them. She could easily plant the safe word that would let her colleagues know she was in trouble. From that moment onwards they'd be on alert… they'd let the team break Brax' brother free, catch them in the act and then arrest them all.

Just then Chance produced a cloth and gagged her. Not in any way hurting her, but the gag was firm, she wouldn't be able to shake it off.

"Let us show you something", Guerrero said, dialed the number he had retrieved from Emma's cell phone and set the electronic devices in motion.

"People who are in danger of permanently losing their voice, due to cancer, for example, have the chance to conserve it with the help of special speech software that not only stores sentences recorded with their voice but actively uses them to form new sentences. Since the Marshall Pucci Foundation supports the development of this software, it always has access to the newest version…", Ilsa explained, unable to keep the triumph out of her voice completely.

Eyes saucer wide Emma witnessed how the device on the bed let her contact person know that she was perfectly alright, that the team would try and break in the supermax three days from now and that there was no need to worry about the prisoner's safety till then.

A device that imitated atmospheric disturbances glossed over any irregularities in the speech flow the program produced.

Oh damn, it really sounded like her and her contact person ate it all up.

"Wearing that recorder while keeping her under guard really paid off", Ames told Ilsa, grinning, rubbing salt into the wound, thank you very much.

Had Emma not been cuffed, she would have buried her face in her hands.

Her whole plan had gone up in flames.


	41. Chapter 41

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Exhausted from all the horrible developments of the past few hours, Emma had asked to be moved to the hotel bed and fallen asleep shortly after.

The team, however, was wide awake. They needed to set a couple of wheels in motion, but Emma under no circumstances was to get wind of that. So…

"No. No sedation. It might harm the baby", Ilsa very firmly stated.

"We KO her. No permanent damage", Guerrero suggested.

"No permanent damage? I had a headache for three days straight after you knocked me out in that kitchen!" Ames shuddered at the memory. Not so much of the blow itself, but of the aftermath. The five phases of fear…

"A punch gone wrong might cause cerebral bleeding, permanent brain damage…", Winston was putting on a serious expression, but his eyes were gleaming. He knew full well that…

"My punches _don't_ go wrong", Guerrero stated in a deceptively even voice, the look on his face, however, indicated that any more hints like that and he'd give Winston the chance to experience first hand just how precise he could hit.

"She's been awake for about twenty hours, she'll be out cold with natural tiredness for quite a while. Enough time for us", Chance pointed out, ignoring his friends' bickering.

Ames was skeptical. "But what if she wakes up? Without sedatives there's no way we can make sure she doesn't. How do you want to get her to the airport and into the plane without her noticing?"

Chance replied with one of his boyish smiles. "Leave that to me."

Okay…

They quietly packed. Ilsa left a check for the bolt damaged floor at the reception, so generous they didn't dare asking questions. Chance put on his jacket and shoes, then walked over to the bed where Emma was still sleeping, but apparently not too deeply. Her subconsciousness had probably picked up on all the movement around her and sent a couple of signals. She was not far from waking up again.

Smooth and silent he sat down next to her curled up form and just waited for a moment. Then he rested his right hand between her shoulder blades, his palm slightly pressing against the thin fabric of her shirt. Emma sighed as soothing warmth spread from her shoulders down the rest of her back and all along her limbs.

Applying soft pressure with his thumb, Chance began to rub the juncture between her neck and shoulders in slow, gentle circles. She visibly relaxed, her limbs stretching out like a cat's on a porch in the sunlight of an early spring day.

"Everything will be alright", he whispered, stroking her hair with his free hand. Again, Emma sighed. She was slipping deeper into the realm of dreams again.

Cautiously Chance removed his hand from its position between her shoulders, went down on his knees and readied himself to pick her up. This was the most tricky moment. If she wasn't gone far enough, she'd wake up now and all their plans would be in danger.

He slipped his arms underneath her body and then, with one fluid movement, got up from his kneeling position. As he cautiously lifted her from the sheets his back protested at the awkward angle and the imbalanced burden. More worrisome, however, was the low grumble of protest Emma produced and the frown on her face. She was on her way back to consciousness again.

"Shh, babe", Chance whispered. "Don't worry about a thing. I got you." He planted the lightest of kisses on her forehead and Emma snuggled against his chest, deeply inhaling his aftershave, the frown on her forehead disappearing.

Ames, on the other hand, looked at Chance and Emma with eyes like burning flames. This was work, she knew, but still… Ilsa put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Chance managed to get Emma in and out of the car and into the plane without any interruptions. They were well in the air for several hours when she finally blinked awake again. Ames brought her breakfast that Emma studied with obvious displeasure. "What is that?", she sniffed at the variety of raw vegetables on her plate.

"Healthy stuff for the baby", Ames replied huffily.

"I'm not planning to give birth to a litter of rabbits." Emma pushed the plate away, as much as her handcuffs allowed.

"I'd be more concerned about hooves and a tail."

"Ames? Need your help here", Chance called from the front of the jet, interrupting the looming conflict.

"Still can't believe you're really planning to set a rat like B. Brax free", Emma called over to them. The past couple of hours of sleep had been exceptionally relaxing. For whatever reason she felt renewed with energy. The battle was not lost yet! She was a witness to all of this, wasn't she? She'd happily give a statement regarding Guerrero's role in the ambush of the ambulance. And testify against Ilsa, too, of course.

"The only thing that'll make G. Brax leave Grunnit alone", Winston replied tersely, walking past her. "You were the one who figured that out in the first place, remember? Nice plan."

"But he's a monster. Are you aware of why he was convicted? He'll probably kill lots of people out of mere revenge, once he's out. What about their lives? I see that Guerrero would promote such a decision, but… where is he, anyway?" Emma looked around and frowned. No munching bastard in sight. Same went for Ilsa…

"Now that you're asking…"

She couldn't see the triumphant smile on Winston's face, but his tone of voice made it very clear that it was there. The monitor on the jet's front wall that separated the passengers' space from the cockpit, flickered to life. A baseball game appeared, some live broadcast.

At first Emma was confused, what the hell…? But then the camera zoomed in on the crowd watching the game and there, right in the middle of hundreds of fans, sat Guerrero, chomping popcorn.

An alibi. They were fabricating an alibi for him.

"I gather you're not a fan of Baseball", Winston chuckled. A second later the program on the screen switched, to some society event. Needless to say who was just walking down the red carpet.

Another waterproof alibi.

Damn. God Damn!

"But maybe action is more your thing…" Winston switched the program for the third time and this time the quality of the video feed changed. Apparently the pictures they were seeing were coming from a hidden camera, showing masked men getting ready for something that involved guns.

"An acquaintance's crew", Chance explained. "They won't have much trouble with the ambulance. And this video proves that neither Winston, Ames nor I were part of the ambush. The faces aren't recognizable, but the men's body shapes are. They differ significantly from ours."

"You _outsorced _this?" Emma couldn't believe it.

"But what about Brax' crimes?", she asked again, in a desperate outcry. Everything was ashes - what was she supposed to do now?

"We've got a plan – one that's working", Ames told her, smug smile on her face. "They're going to hand the brother over to Brax, but they'll hide a tiny device on him. The device will cause Brax' helicopter to have technical problems so that the pilot will have no choice but to land again – where the police, which we are going to inform now, will pick up both brothers."

Just then the monitor behind Ames sprang to life again. Shaking pictures showed how the crew Guerrero had hired, the very men that had just freed B. Brax, suddenly drew their guns.

Someone was attacking them…

One of the crew members stumbled and fell to the ground, clutching his chest.

Two more collapsed and lay motionless.

The camera's angle changed, at first it seemed to drop, then it showed everything from worm's eye view.

Ames watched with horror as men wearing masks of dead presidents unlocked B. Brax' handcuffs and took him with them, treating him with utmost respect and leaving four dead people behind.

Chance and Winston were just as shocked.

This was not part of the plan.

G. Brax face appeared on the screen, all smiles.


	42. Chapter 42

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"Thank you. Thank you soooo much for getting my brother out of prison." Brax' smugness accentuated his Portuguese accent even more.

"Ambushing the ambulance was a nice extra bonus. You hired good people. Pity my men had to terminate those who took their job too seriously." He was grinning at them so broadly, they could see some of his teeth had gold caps.

"Freeing my brother once he was outside the supermax walls would have been a piece of cake. But I never managed to get my hands on one of the prison staff members. Neither bribe nor threat worked. I'm deeply impressed with your Mr. Guerrero – his knowledge of other people's secrets seems to outweigh mine by far." Brax started digging around in the pockets of his jacket.

"Really nice gadget, too." He took out the device Ames had explained Emma only minutes earlier, the one that would have forced Brax' helicopter down. It was so small, they could barely see it with the grainy picture the camera was transmitting.

"I'm not holding this against you." He destroyed the device right before their eyes, stomping on it with his Italian shoe. "In fact I would have been disappointed with the famous Christopher Chance, hadn't you tried anything. Setting a highly dangerous criminal free just like that, that wouldn't have been you."

He giggled. This chunky, golden chain wearing, old fashioned mafiosi looking thug _giggled_. The sound sent shivers down Ames' spine.

"As a reward for your remarkably good work and since I'm a man of my word…"

Winston snorted.

"What? I never promised not to collect my brother a little before the agreed meeting…"

Even Emma felt the urge to wipe the smug smile off Brax' face with something heavy, made of metal.

"As a man of my word I herewith promise to leave your little pet snitch alone. He can lick his wounds at Sibley Memorial Hospital, room number 223b, in peace. I won't harm him. Nurse Whitman has already been notified that she can put the poison away again. I won't harm her little daughter either."

The screen went blank. Apparently Brax had ended the transmission.

For a long while nobody said or did anything. Finally Emma started nibbling on one of the carrots Ames had brought her. Despite this unexpected turn of events she somehow was not in triumphant mood. Didn't stop her from making another plan, though. With B. Brax free, she suddenly had regained some leverage on Chance and his team…

About an hour later the jet went down for an intermediate landing, letting Ilsa and Guerrero board. Emma didn't even notice they were landing till the wheels touched ground. She had been so wrapped up in an argument with Ames about the importance of proper breakfast for a pregnant woman ("That IS proper breakfast." – "If I was a cow, then yes." – "Well…"), she had not caught where exactly they were picking them up, but she assumed they weren't that far from San Francisco.

"There must be something we can do", Ilsa started right away, wasting no time on niceties. Apparently Guerrero had already briefed her on what had happened in Colorado. She was shaken. "We can't just let him walk. B. Brax is even more dangerous than his brother!"

She slumped down into one of the seats. "Murder, human trafficking, drugs, extortion, you name it, he's in it. And we helped him escape…"

Guerrero took the seat opposite from her, produced a bottle of scotch and poured her a generous amount. "Taking him on would be suicide."

"So that's it? We're just giving up?" Ilsa didn't touch the glass.

"For now, yes." Chance came over, poured a glass, too, and handed it to Ames.

"But who knows? Maybe one day down the road…" Winston accepted a half-filled tumbler from Guerrero.

"In this business, nothing's ever really over." Guerrero downed his drink and so did the others. Ilsa was the last one to take a swig.

"I could surely negotiate something for you with the Bureau", Emma helpfully offered from her seat.

Guerrero looked at Chance. Chance nodded.

"What makes you think you'll ever talk to the Bureau again?", Guerrero asked, getting up to face her.

"Well, since you won't kill me I don't see how you're planning to stop me from testifying that you freed B. Brax." Not it was her turn to wear a smug smile.

Guerrero snorted, took the remote control for the plane's monitor from one of the tables and switched it back on. Digital copies of all sorts of documents appeared. Before he could explain anything, however, Winston chimed in: "You're looking at a paper trail that proves without doubt that you blackmailed the prison doctor into sending Brax outside the supermax walls in that ambulance. It also proves that you hired the crew that ambushed the ambulance. Together with the telephone conversation in which you told your contact person that the release operation would go down three days later instead of 24 hours, this looks _really_ bad."

"With the alibis Ilsa and Guerrero have, they'll think you fabricated our involvement to keep your position with the FBI", Ames added.

"You're sunk, dude." Lightly punching another button on the remote control, the electronic copies of the documents disappeared, leaving nothing but blank space.

For the moment.

"You are making me a fugitive!" Emma was so shocked, she was violently pulling at her handcuffs. In a long row of catastrophes, this was the ultimate MCA. "How am I supposed to raise my child when running from the government? What kind of a life will that be?"

Guerrero punched another button and Emma's face appeared on the screen – passport format, with signature in the lower half. They were looking at a driving license. It was blue and there was a white flower on it, a trillium, to be exactly, but for the moment Emma's attention was completely captured by the name on the card: Mildred Endicott.

"You're giving me a new identity? That name sounds like I was eighty!" She squinted. "Hang on, is that…?

"Perfect Ontario driving license, dude."

"CANADA?" Emma almost tore the armrest off her seat. "Are you KIDDING me?"

"The town of Collingwood, Ontario, has been trying to hire a Russian-speaking librarian for a long time. They're looking very much forward to welcoming Ms. Mildred Endicott into their community." Ilsa had finally recovered from the Brax shock. "A very picturesque place right by the Georgian Bay and the mountains not far off, too. Lots of fresh air, cute raccoons…"

A smile flickered across Ilsa's face as she remembered Marshall one morning coming out of the lodge they had rented there for a weekend, finding a whole family of raccoons raiding the garbage can. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Emma's fiercely protesting voice, however, quickly shooed the memory away.

"It's in CANADA!"

"Effectively working healthcare system, worldwide renowned educational standards, low crime rate…", Ilsa continued, completely ignoring her.

"It's a dull country! If not for the USA's economic power they'd be STARVING up there! Look where they all settle – right along the borders! And is there a job duller than librarian? I didn't work my ass off to…"

"We're offering you a way out of this whole mess here, Emma. Take it or don't", Chance interrupted her impatiently.

"But know one thing, dude." Guerrero switched off the screen. "If you go after one of the Brax brothers to somehow get your position with the Bureau back, you WILL die. They won't care." Guerrero nodded pointedly at her stomach area.

Emma froze.

The pilot announced that they were approaching Toronto airport.


	43. irreversible

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ irreversible ~ **_

_**A/N: WARNING – **__**this is a really, really dark and violent chapter, not so much because it's graphic but because it's emotionally intense. Skip it if that kind of thing tends to haunt you. You'll understand the rest of the story without it. **_

"Now, come on Ash, don't be such a baby! We've done it a million times before! Old Dan's gone to town, he's gonna hit the bars and won't be home before tomorrow morning!"

Alec and Taz were already on the other side of the chain-link fence, Tobs and Rudy in the process of climbing it.

"Seriously, what a chickenshit are you?" Alec just couldn't stop taunting him. "Afraid someone will tell your mama?"

Ash bit his lip and spit at the ground. "Just givin' Tobs and Rudy a headstart, is all." Smooth like a mountain lion he cleared the fence in no time, landing on the wrecking yard's premises while his friends were still struggling with the barbed wire on top.

Alec tucked his father's gun behind his belt and applauded mockingly. "Show off you are."

"What about the dog?" Ash had seen the warning signs outside the fence.

"Gus is old, we'll lock him in his kennel, no problem at all." Taz waved and Ash followed him down a long aisle between huge piles of cars in all stages of damage. In the shadow next to the manager's hut they found the dog, sound asleep, already lying in his kennel. It was a Rottweiler like Carmine, huge, but apparently not very watchful. All they needed to do was close the door.

The kennel, just like the manager's hut, was in a sorry state – rust everywhere and loose metal parts, too. Ash couldn't believe Old Dan was actually living here. He wondered how it felt waking up in that rinky-dink shack every morning, looking at nothing but waste.

Well, the hut's windows were blind with dirt anyway, they probably hadn't been cleaned for years, impossible to see anything through them. Maybe exactly what Old Dan wanted.

"This place here is perfect", Tobs yelled from a clear spot a few dozen yards to the right.

"This close to the hut?" Frowning, Ash watched as his friends started to arrange bottles in a row.

"Tried and tested, man. As I said, we've been here before. From here we've got full view of the gate, but nobody can see us." Alec loaded the gun.

It was a Colt M1911 pistol, a single-action, semi-automatic, magazine-fed, and, as Ash had found out the hard way, recoil-operated handgun. This time he'd make sure not to get hurt again. He was not keen on another night in handcuffs.

"Second thoughts?" Alec asked, holding the gun out to him. The grin on his face was a challenge.

"Wouldn't know why. It's just bottles", Ash replied, surely not backing down. Especially not with Rudy around who'd yap about everything happening here to everyone willing to listen. The Tiffany episode had, despite his double success with Kelly and Sally, damaged his reputation enough already – missing out on a date with the hottest girl in school, tsk, tsk.

None of the boys was a really good shot and it took them quite a while to finish off the bottles. Even Ash missed a lot more than he actually hit. There had to be some sort of trick to aiming correctly, but he hadn't figured it out yet. Or maybe he was concentrating too much on not getting injured by the recoil again.

Luckily Alec had brought tons of ammunition. When the bottles were all gone they changed to metal cans. Old Dan apparently didn't think much of garbage disposal. Behind the back window of his hut a huge pile of all sorts of cans, along with takeout cartons and plastic wrappings, slowly rotted away. Beans seemed to be his favorite meal.

Gus, of course, woke up from the shoot-out so close to his kennel. He started barking madly and jumping against his kennel's door. "He'll soon get tired", Alec told Ash. "He always raises hell for the first five minutes or so, then he calms down again. He's old and lazy."

Ash thought of Carmine's usual demeanor and figured Alec was right. Barking dogs didn't bite.

What none of the boys knew, however, was that two days earlier Old Dan had had a problem with the scrap press. A piece of loose metal had found its way into the machinery and caused a malfunction that had first resulted in a horrible screeching sound lasting several minutes and then in a rather shocking explosion of the engine.

Old Dan hadn't gone to town to hit the bars. He was seeing an ear specialist. The screeching had somehow damaged his hearing, ever since the incident there was this strange, constant humming sound in his head he just couldn't get rid of. It was torture. All loud sounds drove him crazy. Not an ideal condition when running a wrecking yard.

What Old Dan hadn't thought of, however, was that his dog had suffered the same trauma. His hearing had been damaged as well and loud sounds were torture to him just as much as they were to Old Dan. Thus he was not simply barking in his kennel pro forma, as he usually did, he was barking and throwing himself against the steel bars because he was losing his mind with shock and terror. The boy's gunshots were driving him literally crazy.

"He sounds really angry", Ash remarked while Tobs was having a go at their newest row of cans.

"Always the worrier Ash, aren't you?", Alec laughed. "Good shot, Tobs!"

At this very moment the rusty hinges of Gus' kennel door finally gave way. The dog, who had just thrown himself against the bars with all his weight, lost balance, tumbled outside and fell right into a jagged remnant of what had once been a Cadillac fender. The sudden, unexpected pain was the final straw that sent him over the edge. Fangs bared and frothing at the mouth he dashed towards the source of his anguish – the boys.

Ash was the first to see him. He knew immediately that this dog was not out to play. "Run! Run!", he yelled. His tone of voice was so intense, so absolutely no-nonsense, they all fled at once.

Except Rudy, who had just received the gun from Tobs.

Totally wrapped up in concentration he simply didn't hear Ash's warning, didn't notice the others running off till Ash grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him along. "We've got to get to the fence!"

Rottweilers aren't made to run long distances. Especially not old Rottweilers. But old Gus was so fired up, so totally out of his usually good-natured mind, he didn't pay any heed to the signals his body was sending. All he wanted was the pain in his head to stop and the only way he knew was to attack what he perceived as the source of the pain.

Alec, Taz and Tobs were already halfway up the fence, but Rudy, in panic, exhausted from the run and in general a little clumsy slipped and crashed to the ground again, right in front of the approaching dog.

Ash, who had tried to assist Rudy with getting up the mesh wire, lunged forward, grabbed the gun and fired at the animal.

He hadn't aimed at him. Not at all. He had just wanted to scare him, to somehow put a halt to the attack.

But he hit him.

The dog's blood-curdling howl cut through the air like a knife. Wailing in a horrible, high pitched tone, Gus crashed to the ground like a ton of bricks.

At first nobody moved. The only sound was the animal's wailing. "Come on Ash, we need to go!" Alec finally called.

Rudy awoke from his frozen state of shock and climbed the fence, but Ash stood rooted to the spot. He couldn't take his eyes off the fallen animal.

Gus was panting heavily. He was curving his front legs in an unnatural angle while his hind legs lay oddly still. With horror Ash realized that his shot must have paralyzed him.

A huge puddle of blood was forming around Gus' midsection and bloody foam was coming out of his nostrils. Suddenly he started shrieking, as if he was much younger, much smaller – like a scared, young puppy.

Ash felt like someone was pulling at a noose around his neck. His whole chest seemed to suffer from some kind of cramp and his heart was beating as if he had run ten miles. The gun in his shaking hand felt too heavy to hold on to, he wanted nothing more than to let it drop to the ground and follow the others over the fence – but the dog…

The animal's whole body was shaking, he was gasping for air, fighting desperately as he was slowly drowning from the blood that was filling his lungs…

_He _had caused this. _His _shot was making him suffer so terribly…

With every last bit of courage he had, Ash forced himself to take a step closer. Then another one.

Gus turned his head and looked at him.

Ash raised his hand and pulled the trigger.

The dog's constant wailing stopped. Immediately. As if someone had suddenly turned off a malfunctioning record.

The silence was more ear-piercing than anything Ash had ever experienced.

He dropped to his knees and threw up.


	44. Chapter 44

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

The last thing, the absolutely last thing Ash wanted to do after the events at the wrecking yard was go to the warehouse. But his mother was away on a job and he was staying with his father.

He checked and double-checked his hands and wrists. No rookie wound this time. But there was blood on his shirt and jeans. Tiny specks…

Alec said nobody would notice, but _he _didn't live at a place where a Guerrero was frequently dropping in. And his father had damn sharp eyes, too. Ash borrowed a T-shirt and jeans from Rudy. Still suspicious, but explainable. At least better explainable than blood splatter.

With a little bit of luck nobody would be at home except Ilsa. From all of his family, she was the easiest deceivable.

Of course he was not lucky.

As the elevator doors slid open, his father was lying face down on the floor. Ames and Ilsa were towering above him, Ilsa with a chainsaw in hand, Ames carrying an axe. Winston and Guerrero were standing a little aside, studying what looked like blown-up black and white photos.

"Nah, Ilsa, you need to get down on one knee, sawing off the arm from that position is practically impossible", Winston said.

"And you happen to know that because?" Guerrero arched a questioning eyebrow at him. "Ilsa's position is fine. It's Ames' posture that needs adjustment…"

As Ash stepped out of the elevator, they all turned and looked at him. Oh great. Could somebody maybe call his grandfather and Uncle Baptiste? They'd surely want to join the fun.

"Hey dude", Guerrero greeted him. Chance raised a hand and waved from his position on the floor.

"Don't want to interrupt", Ash mumbled, rushed past them and dashed up the stairs.

CLAP

The door to his room fell shut behind him.

"What's the matter with him?", Winston asked, frowning.

"He's changed his clothes", Guerrero remarked.

"We'll continue this later", Chance decided. His son's behavior was definitely off.

Ames reached out and helped him to his feet. Before he could make it upstairs to the mezzanine part of the office, however, the door to Ash's room opened again and out hurried Ash, dressed in workout clothes.

There was no way he could have stayed inside the walls of his room, not with the ghostly remnants of the dog's painful wail still ringing in his ear.

"Wanna spar?", Chance yelled from downstairs.

"Nope, just sandbag." And whoosh, he was past them again, heading straight for the back part of the office where his father had created a makeshift gym. Carmine, always excited when the boy was around, got up and proceeded to block his path, he wanted his regular TLC.

"Get out of my way!", Ash yelled at him.

Shocked and upset, Carmine turned his stumpy tail and trotted off.

CLAP

The door to the back part of the office slammed shut.

"You should talk to him", Ilsa told Chance.

They all decided it would be better to let him blow off steam first, though, and thus they disbanded, resuming the activities they had been busy with before Winston and Guerrero had started arguing about an old murder case from San Francisco's mob days.

Winston's telephone rang. A familiar number he had ignored lately. This time Winston picked up the call, partly because she was so insistent, partly because he was still thinking about Ash and not really paying attention.

"We need to meet you, Winston", his ex-wife told him.

Winston took a deep breath. "I already know what you want to tell me, Michele. I know about Hank. I know you're engaged and soon getting married. We don't need to do this face-to-face. I appreciate the gesture, but it's not necessary. All the best…"

A split second before he hung up on her, she replied. "That's not it, Winston. You're right, it's true, I'm engaged, but there's something else… something I need to tell you… I got myself into some sort of trouble…"

"What…?"

"Not over the phone. Let's meet." She gave him a time and a location.

Under normal circumstances, Winston would have told Chance about the call, maybe even brought him with him to wait in the car and watch their backs, Michele had sounded really freaked out, but with Ash's odd behavior Chance was definitely needed at the home front. Winston decided he'd manage. Quietly he took the freight elevator downstairs.

… … …

Chance entered the gym area from a side entrance they rarely used. Silently he watched his son tearing into the sandbag, punching and kicking with all his might.

Unbidden, an image from the past came a-knockin'. He remembered his 14 year old self in some rundown social project gym, ramming his fists into a patched up sandbag till his whole body seemed aflame with pain.

He had been so angry back then and he had never found a real outlet. Till….

Two years later the Old Man had found him.

Ash was covered in sweat and breathing heavenly from attacking the sandbag over and over again when Chance decided to make his move. "You sure there's nothing you want to tell me?"

If Ash had been surprised by his father's sudden appearance – he sure hadn't heard him coming – he didn't show it. Baptiste's training. Or Guerrero's.

"I'm fine. Just wanted to train." He stepped back from the sandbag. His eyes were red and puffy. Not from hitting the bag too hard, Chance was sure.

"Gonna shower now." His arms shaking from all the punching or maybe from something else, too, he turned away.

"Ash…" Chance put a hand on his son's shoulder. He forcefully shrugged it off.

"'m fine, Dad."

The shuttered look on his face, something between pain and wrath and nothing, Chance had seen that, too, in the stained mirrors of some rundown social project gym.

What in the world had happened?

Ash slipped away, towards the showers. Chance pressed his lips together. His son sure as hell wouldn't tell him voluntarily, so what was he going to do now? Force the answer out of him somehow? Jeez, parenting was hard.

There was another option, but it was hardly better than force. Should he really…

Pondering the issue, Chance made his way back to the office area. Guerrero was in the conference room, messing with the computer.

"What are you doing?", Chance frowned, looking at the map of San Francisco displayed on the monitors.

"Took a look at Agent Barnes' things… figured she didn't need the receiver for her tracking bugs anymore… state of the art gadget, dude. Stores data as long as the bug is active, and since trackers tend to stay in a body's system for a week…"

"You're suggesting I track down my son's itinerary for today." It was not a question. Guerrero had come to the same conclusion he had moments earlier, only that he was already one step ahead.

"You want to force the answer out of him instead?" It was more a rhetorical question and when Chance didn't reply, Guerrero took that as silent consent. With no trouble at all, he opened the device's data storage.

"Dan's Scrapping and Wrecking Service tell you something, dude?"


	45. Chapter 45

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Winston checked his watch for what felt like the hundredth time, looked out the restaurant's window and glanced at his watch again. Where the hell was she? It was not like Michele to be late.

In their marriage it had always been him who had missed the appointed time, be it dinner, a family celebration or simply picking her up from the doctor. More often than not he had missed meetings altogether, either cancelling them at the last minute or just forgetting them. For reasons that totally beat him now, he had always put Michele last in his line of priorities – way behind his issues with Broward, a particularly urgent case or simply a few drinks with the boys in the bar down the street.

What a goddamn idiot he had been.

He didn't deserve another chance with her. What had he been thinking? Judging from the file Guerrero had put together, this Hank was a good guy. Shared her interests. Took her out to nice restaurants on a regular basis and bought her small gifts online. Flowers for her birthday, for Valentine's Day, for the anniversary of their first meeting. And cards.

How often had he bought a card and a bunch of sorry flowers from the gas station? Valentine's Day was always on the 14th of February, but somehow it had taken him by surprise every year.

Winston took a deep breath. He had had his chance and blown it. Time to step aside. Michele deserved a guy like Hank. He just hoped she would make today's meeting short and not waste time on a prolonged explanation. That she was so late, however, didn't bode well. Where the hell was she?

She had sounded concerned… _I got myself into some sort of trouble_… maybe she had somehow insulted her future mother in law or something in that direction… or she needed his police contacts to get rid of a couple of tickets…

A brownish Toyota Camry pulled up in the street by the restaurant. Winston barely registered it, till he noticed that Michele was behind the steering wheel. What in the world? That was not her usual car.

Frowning, Winston watched as his ex-wife reached for something on the passenger seat – a blue folder – looked around, hesitated, then got out of the car. He had seen that kind of behavior before – with clients, on the run. Suddenly Winston knew, not just assumed, he _knew _that Michele's problems were far worse than a couple of unpaid parking tickets.

Getting up and pulling his cell phone out at the same time, he headed for the door, his eyes not leaving her for a second. As high on alert as he was, he immediately noticed the black Subaru station wagon that was coming down the street. It was the car's high speed that caught his attention, even before he consciously registered it.

The driver was steering the vehicle way too close to the sidewalk.

Winston had seen that kind of behavior before, too – with thugs being after their clients.

Oh God.

Someone was after Michele!

Winston raced towards the entrance, threw himself against the restaurant's door, reached for his gun.

The car came to a screeching halt right next to Michele. The passenger's door flew open. Someone grabbed her.

Yelling, Winston dashed out on the street.

Screaming and kicking, Michele tried to get away from the car. She threw the blue folder to the ground, as far away as she could, but a hooded figure on the backseat jumped out of the car, picked up the folder and all sheets of paper that had fallen out. Seizing Michele by the shoulders, he helped the attacker on the passenger's seat to push Michele into the car.

These were professionals, a well-attuned crew.

Car door hanging half-open, the driver fired up the engine.

Winston could do nothing but shoot once at the turning wheels as the car raced off.

Shaking and gasping for air, he speed-dialed Chance while several spectators called the police.

… … …

"Something out of the ordinary?" Old Dan laughed bitterly at Chance's question and spit at the ground. "One could say so." He coughed, a heavy, barking cough. "My dog's dead. Came home and found him dead. Had him since he was a pup." His voice was raspy from alcohol and grief. He looked at Chance with bloodshot, bleary eyes. "Some bastard shot him. Shot him! For heaven's sake… Gus was a good boy. Wouldn't hurt a fly."

Chance's eyes rested on what had most likely been the deceased dog's kennel. The door looked as if it had been forced open from the inside and the rusty hinges had given in.

Dan motioned Chance to follow him, away from the hut that apparently served both as his office and his home. As they slowly made their way towards the fence they passed a rather large spot not far away from Dan's hut. The remnants of glass bottles and metal cans, lined up in a row, didn't escape Chance's notice. So they had been target shooting again…

A black tarp was spread out right in front of the fence, the distinctively shaped bump in its middle leaving not much room for interpretation what was underneath.

Slightly swaying, Dan pulled back the tarp, revealing his dog's carcass. "Haven't managed to bury him yet. Ground was too hard. Need a pickax." Chance nodded, seeing his suspicions confirmed. A Rottweiler like Carmine, of all breeds...

From the row of broken bottles and damaged cans, the traces of vomit on the ground, the destroyed kennel door and the pieces of torn cloth on the fence Chance had a pretty good idea of what had happened. Especially the dog's wounds spilt the beans: One shot to the mid-section, not deadly, but extremely harm- and painful. Probably caused a paralysis of the hind legs. A second shot to the head.

Mercy killing.

This must have been horror for Ash.

Heavens, this was exactly the kind of experience he had wanted to spare his son at all costs.

Chance took a deep breath, more than ever at a loss what to do. What was the proper pedagogically accurate reaction to that kind of incident? He wondered if he should get Ash and make him dig the grave.

Just then his cell phone rang.


	46. Chapter 46

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Thankfully, Lt. Peale was put in charge of the investigation. He took Winston's statement himself and then had him brought to a backroom of the restaurant. There the warehouse crew would be able to easily get to him without being seen by too many eyes.

Granted, he was not exactly running it by the book, letting these people so close to the crime scene, but they had helped many a victim out of a tight spot where the police force had simply been at a loss. He still frowned upon their connection with Guerrero, but that didn't matter now. Peale had first met Winston when he had still been a cop and he knew that Winston had suffered from the divorce, had seen him drinking his pain away in the cop shops.

The man needed his friends right now. To hell with the book.

Guerrero and Ilsa were the first to arrive on the scene, Ames came in right behind them and even Chance, although he had been furthest away with his visit to the wrecking yard, made it to the restaurant in less than twenty minutes.

This was about Winston. Nothing could have stopped him or any of the others.

… … …

"I stood there like an idiot!" Winston's voice was an outraged roar. He was pacing the room like a caged tiger. "One shot! I fired exactly one shot! Goddamnit, I could have stopped them!"

"Or killed your ex with a ricochet bullet", Guerrero stated evenly.

Not evenly enough.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean, wiseass? What the hell are you saying? Are you saying she's lucky I didn't stop them? Could have hurt her? Cause I'm such a dumbass, I don't know how to handle a gun? Don't know how to help my wife?" Winston's words were stumbling into each other, falling over one another other. He was breathing heavily, like an old-fashioned locomotive, and spit was flying as he spoke.

Ilsa was getting concerned about his blood pressure.

"You asshole, how dare you say that!" Winston gave Guerrero a violent shove that sent him flying to the floor.

Now Ilsa was getting concerned about something else, but Guerrero did nothing but hoist himself to his feet again. "Dude…", he said calmly.

"I could have saved her!" Winston turned around and knocked the small table in the middle of the room over. He kicked it and then slammed his fists against the wall, so hard, the skin on his knuckles broke.

"I thought this was about parking tickets!" Once more he punched the wall, living bloody prints. A framed picture on the far end came crashing to the floor.

"Winston!" Chance stepped in quickly before he could pound his head in, put a hand on his shoulder.

The light contact was all Winston needed. He wheeled around and lashed out at Chance, shaking with wrath. Hurling himself at him with his full weight, he was desperate to do something, anything to make the unbearable pain, the despair and the shame go away.

He could have saved her. But it had taken him too long to get his fat ass out of the restaurant.

Chance easily sidestepped Winston. All the energy of his enormous momentum suddenly going nowhere, he lost balance and crashed to the floor like a ton of bricks, but not for long.

Outside the police officers overheard the sounds of Winston's breakdown with raised eyebrows, but Peale had ordered them to stay away from that room and so they did.

Inside, Chance threw Guerrero a quick glance. Guerrero understood.

Making a howling sound, like a hurt, angry animal, Winston clambered to his feet again, ready to attack Chance once more. This time Chance didn't avoid contact. Instead he grabbed his arm, twisted it around, kicked him in the back of his right knee so that he went down again and thus managed to hold him still just long enough for Guerrero to ram an injection into his upper arm.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry", Chance whispered, holding on to Winston as he helplessly tossed and turned in his arms. "You're not alone in this. Trust me. We'll get her back. Just let go now. Let it go."

Winston's struggles died down, his movements became slower, more and more uncoordinatedly.

"This is it", Chance softly murmured in his ear, his restraint hold now an embrace. "Just let go. We'll find a way."

Winston's head sagged against his chest as he let out one last desperate grunt of protest. Cautiously Chance hooked his arms under his shoulders. Dragging Winston out of here would be a bit of work.

"I'll get the car to the backdoor", Ames offered as Guerrero proceeded to pick up Winston's legs.

"Do you habitually walk around with a loaded syringe full of tranquilizer?", Ilsa asked him, quickly moving broken pieces of furniture out of the men's way.

"No, just didn't need it for this morning's … meeting … ", Guerrero grunted.

Ilsa held the door open. _Don't tell me details_, the look on her face said.

… … …

Waking up was like emerging from cold water. For a moment Winston was completely disorientated, then he recognized Chance 's bedroom. Of course. Ames was staying in the guestroom… Thankfully they hadn't accommodated him in Guerrero's secret prison chamber downstairs… but ugh, they could have changed the sheets, couldn't they? Housekeeping tasks were pretty low on Chance's list of priorities.

Like a wave crashing down on him, Winston suddenly remembered why he was here, in Chance's bed, still drowsy from whatever they had sedated him with. Hatred and anger washed over him, leaving him seething with shame.

Michele had been taken! Right in front of his eyes! And he hadn't been able to save her!

The last remnants of whatever shit Guerrero had dosed him with threatened to pull him back to sleep, but Winston was fiercely determined not to let that happen. There was some thought, a vague ghost of an idea… who had known that he would meet Michele at that restaurant? Had she been followed or…?

The ding of the elevator caught his attention.

"How is he?" Guerrero's muffled voice downstairs.

"Still asleep." Ilsa. "Any developments?"

Winston guessed the silence that followed was actually filled with a shake of Guerrero's head. Then: "This Hank knows nothing. Policed searched her house. Looks like she wrote everything down on paper and put it into that blue file. No trace of anything on her computer… damn traditionalists. Can't hack into a folder."

A small smile flitted across Winston's face. Michele hated computers. Of course she had written everything down by hand.

Which meant all the clues had been taken away with that blue file.

Except…

If there was one person on the face of the earth Michele would have confided in, it was Ethan. They were friends since childhood days. She had helped him with his coming-out. He would know what was going on. And maybe … there was the ghost of his earlier thought again … maybe Ethan had told someone where Michele was meeting him. By accident, most likely. Probably someone tapped his phone. They were old friends.

Or did he do it on purpose? If he had anything to do with Michele's kidnapping at all…

Winston was fiercely determined to find out.

Guerrero left again. The telephone rang and Ilsa went to answer it. Winston took his opportunity to sneak out of Chance's room and leave.

Of course the thought of informing the others crossed his mind. It would have made sense.

But the shame… he hadn't been able to save her… instead of doing something productive he had suffered a nervous breakdown… he'd do this alone. She was his wife, for heaven's sake!

… … …

While Winston decided to finally do something productive on this horrible day that was slowly turning into night, someone else was already done with being productive.

Smiling, Innokentij shone a flashlight down the grave he had just reopened. Sure, he could have made one of his men do the dirty work, but he preferred to keep some things to himself. A philosophy that had saved his life more than once in the past few decades, especially during his spell in Siberia...

Anyway, since the grave was only a few hours old – the wrecking yard owner had really had to struggle with his pickax in the hard ground, impressive that he managed to dig so deeply – it hadn't posed too much of a problem.

With the help of a stick he pushed back the black tarp to get a look at the carcass, resting the beam of his flashlight on the two wounds, studying them carefully. Finally he nodded. "Not a bad beginning…"

Meanwhile, in his bed back at the warehouse, Ash was tossing and turning, caught in a nightmare.

And in the third floor corridor of an apartment house in the Castro district, Winston was about to enter just another nightmare of his own.


	47. Chapter 47

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**A/N: Big Thank You to PocketSevens and, as always, niagaraweasel, who both helped his chapter to come into being! **_

Winston rang Ethan's doorbell. He could hear it chime inside the apartment. Not your regular ding-dong sound effect, no, of course not with Ethan Riker, hairstylist and up-and-coming interior designer. He gave you St. Paul Cathedral's Angelus – all twelve bells, along with The Banger, Great Paul and Great Tom. With these thin walls living next to him surely was fun.

It had actually been Michele who had convinced Ethan to enroll in some community college courses and get an official degree in interior design at the age of forty. Winston could imagine very well how she had managed to persuade him. _It's never too late to pursue your dreams. Go ahead and do it! There is no failure except in no longer trying. _That was his girl, the woman he had fallen in love with. 

After the divorce people had told him they had gotten married too early. Others had explained that cops were practically bound to have marital problems. Ethan however, skinny, make-up and manicured nails wearing weakling that he was, had told Winston direct and straightforward that the problem had neither been age nor job.

"It's you, your buffalo mentality of waltzing over everything and preferring shouting to talking. Somewhere down the road you waltzed over her and didn't even notice. She wanted to _live_, Winston. You were suffocating her, with your bad mood spells, your anger, your unhappiness. In the end you left her no choice." In hindsight Winston realized how much guts Ethan had shown that day, voicing this outright critique directly in Winston's face. Back then he'd barely managed to refrain from kicking his ass through the door.

Speaking of door…

Tilting his head, Winston noticed that the door to Ethan's apartment was not locked, it was off the latch. He gave it the slightest of pushes and it swung open. Somewhere in Winston's mind a voice of reason piped up, told him to call the police or at least Chance, but on the other hand there was this feeling that he needed to check on Ethan right now, that he shouldn't wait a second longer… Ajar doors that are supposed to be locked never bode well.

To be honest, he was less concerned about Ethan himself than about Ethan being the only clue to what might have happened to Michele.

Winston drew his gun and slowly made his way through the short corridor, careful not to produce any more noise than absolutely necessary. The apartment's ceiling was low, though, and Winston was a big man. His head brushed against the crystal prisms of the electric Venetian style chandelier Ethan was so proud of. The prisms slightly chinked. At least the fake leopard skin rug muffled the sound of his footsteps.

There was light in the living-room and the door was half-open. Peeking in, Winston noticed nothing out of the ordinary. No sound at all made him quite confident that he was alone. The white lacquered furniture, the tiny porcelain birds Ethan collected and used as decoration wherever he could, the framed Hockney prints on the wall… everything seemed perfectly normal. Except…

The dark red carpet was a little too dark red on a spot Winston could not completely see from his position behind the door. He cautiously pushed it open a little further… and froze. In his cop years he had been called to many crime scenes and the years with Chance had made him witness things he would have gladly have never laid eyes on, too, so he was used to quite a bit.

Nevertheless the image of Ethan, tied to a chair and beaten to a bloody pulp was nothing he could stomach easily. His face was practically smashed in, with the eyes almost invisible from the swelling all around. Holstering his gun, Winston rushed to his side, reached out the check his pulse. The skin was still warm, so the attack couldn't have happened too long ago. Or…

As Winston's fingers lightly brushed against the skin of Ethan's throat, he groaned, a barely audible, half gurgled sound, indicating lungs full of blood. Winston wasted no time, he cut the cable ties that kept Ethan bound to the chair, laid him on the floor and started with mouth-to-nose insufflation. CPR was pretty much out of question, his rib cage looked as if someone had kicked it in.

Winston knew it was fruitless. But heavens, he had to try, hadn't he? With his left hand he was feeling for his cell to call 911 when suddenly Ethan's eyes flew open, as far as they could with the swelling. "Mistake", he gasped. Then his body completely relaxed, all muscle tension seemed to evaporate within a split second. Winston sat back on his heels. No need for an ambulance anymore. Ethan was dead.

Oh god, he was dead.

Whoever had kidnapped Michele surely had something to do with Ethan's horrible demise. The brutality of the act, the ordeal Ethan must have been put through… it looked like he had been tortured. The realization what that might mean for Michele's fate hit Winston like a blow with a baseball bat, knocking all wind out of him. Good lord, what had she gotten herself into?

Just then the loud bang of a door getting smashed against a wall woke Winston from his frozen state. He grabbed his gun, ready to defend himself. The living-room door burst open. Three men in black uniforms stormed in. Thank God Winston looked properly instead of opening fire immediately – the men were cops.

"FREEZE! DROP YOUR GUN! SLOWLY! DROP IT!"

Only now Winston realized what the cops were seeing: A huge armed black man right next to a bloody heap that barely resembled a human body. And blood of said heap all over the black men's clothes, hands, face. He lowered his gun to the floor, then went down on his knees, hands behind his neck. This was not up for debate, they wouldn't listen to him as long as they couldn't be absolutely sure he posed no threat anymore.

_You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you at interrogation time and in court._

"Let me explain…" Winston tried to interrupt.

… … …

Back in the warehouse, the ruckus that had erupted once Winston's disappearance had been detected, had woken Ash from a really bad dream. For a while he lay in the dark, listened to Ilsa's panicky apologies, Ames' attempts to calm her, his father's soothing voice and Guerrero's curt suggestions what to do next. He couldn't understand everything, apparently they decided to go looking for him, the elevator dinged…. Ash really didn't want to go back to sleep. He rolled out of bed and padded down the stairs, into the kitchen. Carmine lay snoring in front of the oven, as it was still warm from some food Ilsa must have heated before discovering that Winston was gone.

Ah yes, some sort of vegetable bake. Ash's stomach rumbled, but he wasn't sure if he could eat something. In the end he settled for a glass of water. It was too late in the night to call Isu. But if he didn't talk to someone soon… Ash felt as if he was going to explode. His father knew something was up and he had offered to talk earlier… But Ash remembered very well how his father had reacted, last time the issue of guns had come up. In the light of what had happened on the wrecking yard... He'd probably kill him.

Maybe he should call his grandfather…

"Sleeping trouble?", a voice behind him suddenly said.

Ash jumped. "I thought you were gone, looking for Winston."

"We've got no clue whatsoever where he went. Guerrero and Ames are checking out a couple of contacts, Ilsa is pacing a path into her office floor… I'll hold the fort." Chance rested his eyes on his son. "Ash…"

His voice was calm, and there was something about his tone… Ash bit his lip. His stomach knotted up and his knees threatened to buckle, but there was also this feeling that he could… maybe he wouldn't kill him after all? And punishment... no TV, no dates, no ice-hockey... he deserved that anyway, didn't he? He took a deep breath, made eye-contact with his father...

The telephone rang. A second later Ilsa called from her office. Both Ash and Chance knew immediately, whatever she had to say, it was not good news.


	48. Chapter 48

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"Investigative custody? Your honor! With all due respect, this is a man who spent twenty years of his life in the service of the city of San Francisco!"

Ilsa would have gladly hired the most expensive legal eagle in California but Allyson Russo had given them a bit of background info on the judge who'd decide about Winston's near future and told them the name of the lawyer he usually dealt best with.

"There is absolutely no reason not to let him out on bail", the lawyer continued, his posture making very clear that he was not going to back down on this.

Unfortunately Allyson Russo, for obvious reasons, hadn't been allowed to take Winston's case and her colleague, Assistant D.A. Harris, was just as adamant to come out on top as Winston's lawyer. Maybe Chance shouldn't have pissed him off so much back when he protected her in the role of Whitey Doyle's legal representative…

"Mr. Winston's personal file shows first and foremost one thing: He is a man prone to violent outbreaks. His time _in the service of the city of San Francisco_ was interspersed with all sorts of disciplinary problems, including insubordination, drinking on the job and physical confrontations with fellow officers. Not exactly a paramount example for our city's finest, if you ask me."

"We are not here to debate my client's job performance", Winston's lawyer chimed in, but he didn't get any further.

"Well, it was you who brought that point up, didn't you?" Harris all but smirked at his opponent.

Winston's lawyer decided to go on the offensive. "My client's ex-wife was kidnapped right in front of his eyes hardly 24 hours ago. He still doesn't even know whether she's still alive or not. So far the police has come up with nothing…"

"Which is exactly why Mr. Winston took matters in his own hands, went to Ethan Riker's apartment and beat him to death because Mr. Riker didn't provide the right answers to soothe Mr. Winston's wrath. His violent temper is documented in his personnel file in connection with numerous incidents."

"Objection, your honor! This is not a…."

"Objection sustained", the judge agreed. "Mr. Harris, get to the point. Why should I not let Mr. Winston out on a two million dollar bail?"

"Because he is in the employ of Mrs. Ilsa Pucci who not only would have no trouble relinquishing even such a huge amount of money, but also owns a private jet. We let Laverne Winston walk out of here and he'll be on his way to South America within sixty minutes."

"Are you seriously implying that Mrs. Pucci, billionaire, philanthropist, former chairwoman of the Marshall Pucci Foundation, would help a murder suspect escape just because he is in her employ?"

For a second it seemed the judge would give the argument of Winston's lawyer some thought, but Harris had done his homework.

"Not for any employee, no. But apparently the relationship between Mr. Winston and Mrs. Pucci is _special. _ So special, in fact, that Mrs. Pucci is attending this hearing."

Ilsa, in the back of the courtroom, froze. Oh God, what if her presence somehow had a negative effect on the judge's decision? She had only wanted to somehow support Winston, be there for him…

To her horror, the judge indeed agreed with ADA Harris' point of view. Winston was to be remanded in custody.

She pressed her hands against her face in utter terror. Winston was well-known among criminals, both from his time as a police man and from his partnership with Chance. It was common knowledge what happened to members of the law enforcement once they ended up behind bars themselves and Winston, with his long and colorful history of being a pain in the ass…

Just then Ilsa's cell phone signaled. Giving Winston one last wave, not even sure if he, despite Harris' public acknowledgement, had realized her presence, she stepped out of the courtroom and looked at her cell's display.

A text message from Guerrero: _Don't worry. _

… … …

Winston went through the detention center's booking process in a state of paralysis. Michele had been taken more than 24 hours ago now and still no ransom demand, no contact at all with the kidnappers. The images of Ethan's mauled body, the knowledge that with that kind of injuries he must have gone through hell on earth, the horror of the question what that might mean for his ex-wife, kept haunting him, ruled his mind, left hardly any room for the horror of the situation he himself was in.

Only when he sat down on a bench, as far away from the others as possible, and suddenly two giants approached him, did it dimly get through to him that he was _in prison_. Among people who hated his guts. Whose cousins, brothers, friends he had shot. Whose fathers he had arrested.

As deeply as Michele's kidnapping and the finding of Ethan had traumatized him, now his instincts kicked in. Whatever happened, he wouldn't go down without a fight. His fists still hurt from him foolishly hitting the walls in that restaurant, double foolish because thanks to these injuries on his knuckles the police now believed he had beaten Ethan to death and he would be hampered to fight these monsters that were now sitting down next to him, one to his right, one to his left.

Nevertheless, not without a fight…

"Relax", the giant to his right growled just then. "Guerrero sent us."

… … …

"I've really tried", Ames said, resting her eyes on Chance's plate full of scrambled eggs with the saddest Bambi look ever.

Chance couldn't help but laugh at her heart-melting expression. "It's not the food", he gently replied.

"I know." She turned away. He didn't need to see her tears. Winston in handcuffs… Winston. He had put _her_ in handcuffs a couple of times and as a teenager she surely would have found the idea of him behind bars highly amusing.

Now the thought turned her stomach. Winston… without him the warehouse seemed so empty.

"Guerrero has it under control", Chance told her quietly. She didn't reply, didn't turn her face to him, but her shoulders started shivering.

"Hey… hey…" Chance got up, walked around the table and crouched next to her. With his index finger he gently wiped a tear from her cheek.

"Despite the shit they show on CSI it is very hard to determine exactly how old injuries are. The bruises and scratches on Winston's knuckles were fresh and he had Riker's blood all over his clothes – that's why they hauled him in, but that's also all they know and all they have. Let them do a couple of tests. They'll soon find out they've got the wrong one." He put his hand under her chin and lifted it slightly.

"Winston doesn't go down easily. He'll make it."

Chance was good at pretending. He didn't let her see that in the back of his mind, pictures of Winston in cuffs – in _cuffs _– kept attacking him.

Noise on the stairs told them that Ash was heading for the gym area again. Ames looked at Chance. She needn't say anything.

"I'll talk to him", Chance nodded.


	49. Chapter 49

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

This time Ash noticed Chance slipping in through the side door. "Want to train alone", he muttered, turning his back to his father. A day ago, before all the disasters that had suddenly broken out, he would have hurled a "Can't I be alone for FIVE minutes?" at him, but now… Ash knew what Winston was to Chance… to all of them, actually.

Winston was loud, quick-tempered and didn't mince words, but he was also… Ash frowned, trying to find an accurate description… like a … coach… or a … corner man. Like in boxing. Always there when needed, the figure in the back that made sure everyone got home safe.

His absence was palpable everywhere. The warehouse felt empty without him.

Ash reminded himself that Winston was not dead, he was only in prison. His father, Guerrero, Ames, Ilsa… they'd somehow get him out.

They'd somehow get him out.

Chance walked over to his son and put a hand on his shoulder. "Come on", he said and steered him away from the sandbag. This was something Ash hadn't reckoned with. He had thought his father would sit him down, ask what the hell had gotten into him… instead he directed him into the elevator. Ash was astonished, unsure what to do and a bit curious, too. So he followed his father's lead. Wordlessly they rode to the third floor.

Oh no. The third floor.

The warehouse's shooting range.

"I don't…" Ash expected Chance to shove him out of the elevator, but instead he exited the car first, stepped outside, turned to him.

"Come on." Chance slightly tilted his head, eyes resting on his son, not exactly relaxed but completely calm, ready to wait out whatever decision he would make.

Ash swallowed, hesitated, took a step back… Chance still stood there just looking at him, waiting, giving him all the time in the world to make up his mind. For whatever reason, Ash suddenly felt reminded of ice-hockey, the split second in front of the goal cage, when he had to decide now or never whether to pass the puck to another player or give it a go himself…

He stepped out of the elevator.

Despite the tight knot in his stomach, Ash couldn't help but look around. He had never been allowed to enter the third floor before. It basically looked just like the other empty floors of the building, lots of space, little furniture. Everything was surprisingly clean, though. On a table by the actual shooting range he could make out the black shape of a handgun.

Not exactly a surprise. But still…

Everything in Ash wanted to bolt and make a run for the stairs. But there was his father, standing perfectly still, his eyes resting on him, watching him…

_I don't want to disappoint you, Dad. _

The irony of the situation, however, wasn't lost on him. A week ago he'd have been overjoyed and excited if his father had taken him here. Now all he wanted to do was turn tail and hide somewhere.

But… the disappointment thing… just like in ice-hockey, this was a now or never situation…

"I don't…", he began again, but his voice broke, he couldn't say anything. The horrible wail of the dog suddenly filled his ears again and the image of his writhing body…

"I have killed. More than once", Chance suddenly said, hesitated for a second, then added, a little quieter: "In my job."

For a moment, all memories of Gus vanished, wiped away by this totally new information. Now, Ash knew his father used guns frequently and common sense told him they were not only for show and to scare bad guys away, but actually hearing from him that he…

Chance let the words sink in. He watched his son's reaction, anxiously waiting for any signs of repulsion, fear, horror…

Nothing of that.

"You know, don't you?" Ash started shivering. "About… the wrecking yard…." He nearly choked on the words.

"I know you didn't want all that to happen. It just kind of snowballed, it began as what seemed like a good idea and somehow span out of control…" Inside the knot in Chance's stomach was slowly dissolving. Ash was looking scared and small and lost, but not because he had just heard him confessing that he had killed more than one human being. He was scared what he, his father, would think about him! He mattered to Ash.

Relief washed over Chance, despite the graveness of the situation. Granted, he had told him a pretty watered down version of the truth, but still… His son didn't deem him a monster.

"I'm so sorry…" A single tear crept down Ash's face, then another one… finally they started flowing. Chance reached out and embraced him.

"Will this ever…?" Muffled voice against Chance's chest, trembling back and spine underneath his hands.

When his father didn't answer, Ash lifted his face, sought eye-contact with him. "Will this ever go away?"

The knot in Chance's stomach returned, harder than ever. He had feared this question, feared what the answer would do to his son. But there was no way around it, not the way Ash's eyes bore into him.

_Don't look at me like that._

He hated himself for the answer he had to give. Maybe he should… to soften the blow at least for a short while…? But he had already lied enough to his child. "You take a life and a part of you is gone. This will stay with you forever and nothing can take it away again. You cannot go back."

Chance tightened his embrace.

"But you don't have to face this alone."

Ash sobbed against his chest and Chance just wordlessly held him. Only when the shaking of his body died down, he patted his back. "Now come on, we've got stuff to do." He gently steered him towards the table with the gun.

"We'll practice target shooting."

White hot fear ran down Ash's spine – mixed with sheer disbelief. "After all the shit I've pulled you want to teach me how to use a gun?"

"I trust you that you're never going to touch a gun again unless you have no other choice. But should the moment come, you need to know how to use it properly." Chance showed him how to check the gun.

"We kind of attract trouble, don't we?" Ash's voice was barely above a whisper, the horror of the past few days, the dog's death, the kidnapping, Winston's arrest all tugging at it, threatening to break it.

Chance reached out and tousled his son's hair. "Word of advice – no mischief after eating a tracking device. Not with Guerrero on alert. And he's always on alert, trust me."

The ghost of a smile flitted across Ash's face.


	50. rats in a maze

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ rats in a maze ~ **_

Winston's lawyer had _so_ waited for this telephone call. He had known it would come eventually – Allyson Russo would have never taken the risk of passing on protected information regarding the judge etc. if she hadn't been firmly convinced that his client was innocent.

Nevertheless waiting for this call had been hard. Patience wasn't really his thing.

Two long weeks, it had taken the crime lab two long weeks to get to the samples from Ethan Riker's apartment and wounds. Talk about municipal money tightness… The ban on overtime had set back hundreds of cases, it was better not to ponder too much how many innocents like his client were anxiously waiting in prison for the lab to get to their case.

The test results were unambiguous. None of the DNA traces at the scene of the crime matched with Laverne Winston's. His story was true, he didn't do it. Ah, that smelt like a field day. He had political ambitions and took advantage of every opportunity to practice polemics…

"It is unbelievable, UNBELIEVABLE, that a former member of the police force, a man who put his life on the line everyday for twenty years to make this city a little safer, had to spend TWO WEEKS in custody because an over-zealous ADA wanted to have his moment in the sun!", the lawyer barked at the DA.

… … …

"You know how this works, Larry. Tell me what I want to know and you can walk." Guerrero carefully arranged a couple of tools on his workbench, making sure Larry had a good view of every single item he chose.

"I really don't understand. Did I somehow get in your way? I swear I didn't mean to!" Larry kept pulling at his cuffs, but of course it was useless. They were holding just as well as the screws which kept the chair firmly fastened to the middle of the room.

"Two weeks ago a woman was kidnapped. Michele Winston. Head nurse at St. Francis. Taken in the middle of the day, in front of a fully occupied restaurant. Not many crews in California could have pulled that off without a single trace." Guerrero turned on his electric saw, let it run for a moment to feed Larry's imagination, turned it off again.

"Now, I know your boys were busy with that money transporter thing in LA, but I'm pretty sure, whoever wanted that kidnapping went to you first, asking for your services. Who wanted to hire you?"

"Seriously, Guerrero, I can't…" Again, Larry pulled at his cuffs, frantically this time.

Guerrero put on rubber gloves and began setting up his car battery equipment.

… … …

"Laverne Winston is an honorable man." The lawyer was on a roll, knowing that the DA had no other choice but to wait, listen and sit out his rant. Mrs. Pucci had spent the past two weeks causing him and his office as much trouble as possible. Pretty much everyone of rank and name except the president of the US himself had called, making threats ranging from budget cuts to transfer for disciplinary reasons, should the evidence not hold and the Winston case blow up in his face. Lacking other leads, the DA had tried to make the lab work faster, but the lab people were on some kind of strike, because of the ban on overtime… it was all a mess….

"Mr. Winston would never even maintain contact with criminals, much less commit crimes himself. Both his deeds and his socioenvironment, as can be seen from Mrs. Pucci's continuous support, are completely integer. All those accusations that your office made in the press, regarding my client's involvement in residual incidents like the shootout at that sports bar three years ago that led to the arrest of Henry Claypool were made up out of nothing but thin air!"

The DA on the other end of the line started doodling a hangman, imagining it was soon to be former ADA Harris.

… … …

Larry bent over and threw up. Guerrero couldn't help but think that putting the drain into the floor while creating his home office had definitely been worth the money. All he needed to do afterwards was turn on the water hose, distribute a bit of bleach and all potential trace material was taken care of.

"It's up to you, Larry. _I_'ve got all night…" Guerrero gave him another electric shock. Larry's whole body convulsed, he made a gurgling noise, shuddered and tried to throw up again, but his stomach was already empty.

"They'd kill me…", he gasped.

"And what exactly do you think I'll do?" Another shock.

More gurgling noise, coughing, choking. "Guerrero, please, I didn't do anything!"

Guerrero sighed. "I know. But the crew was too good. You're my only lead."

… … …

"Winston!" Ilsa ran to hug him the second he exited the elevator. Guerrero had advised her to send him a taxi, not the limousine. They didn't need the attention. She was so overjoyed to have him back, she didn't notice he wasn't returning her embrace.

"You've lost weight!" She took a step back, studied him.

"This is just not right! I donated two new freezers and two dishwashers to the prison. They were supposed to feed you right! I even had my driver deliver fresh vegetables and meat every morning!"

"I know", Winston interrupted Ilsa. "I just wasn't hungry." The strange flatness in his voice made Ilsa study him even harder. What she now, that the first joy of having him back had subsided, perceived, made her stomach clench. He looked horrible. They had tried so hard to protect him in prison, make it as comfortable for him as possible, Guerrero had had eyes on him 24/7… but still he looked like a zombie.

"Hey… " Chance came down the stairs, greeted him with a nod and a shake of the hands. "Good to have you back."

"Any new leads?", Winston asked, suddenly a bit more awake, less zombie-like. "Anything on Michele?"

"Guerrero's working on it", Chance reassured him, hesitated and then bit the metaphorical bullet. He gave his friend an awkward hug.

Again, Winston didn't return it.

… … …

"Jennings! The name is Jennings!", Larry coughed, desperately trying to squeeze a bit of air into his cramped up lungs. "He tried to hire me. Jennings!"


	51. Chapter 51

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Going to a public school, with actual classmates, a variety of teachers, school sport, recess and, most importantly, girls, had been a first to Ash and he had to admit, in the beginning he had been a little nervous. It hadn't taken him long, however, to adjust and become comfortable with his new environment.

His mother had dragged him all over the world, he had spent time in Russia and Hong Kong, acquiring an acceptable social position in the social microcosm of an US-American junior high had been a challenge, but not one he hadn't been prepared to master. His athleticism, his more and more handsome looks and his natural sense of humor pretty much paved him the way into the "most popular" league within a couple of months and by now, two years after his arrival, his status was well cemented. He had established a certain reputation.

Others were not so lucky.

Ash knew Andrew from the ice-rink. He was a _figure-skater_. Jeez, talk about a shitty position to start from… The second the other boys in his year found out he spent his free time doing girly moves in leotards to pompous music he had lost all chances of ever getting a proper date – or a recess in peace.

Andrew usually hid in the library. He was heading the library club und could always say he was busy labeling new books or whatever and thus couldn't join the others in the official recess areas. Sometimes, however, he couldn't help it. He needed food just like everyone else.

Order in the cafeteria itself was maintained under the watchful eyes of Mrs. Caroline Bingham. Pranks, teasing, any kind of mischief with the food were totally out of the question. After more than forty years of working school cafeterias, she knew how to deal with bratty teenagers. Do not mess with Mrs. Bingham. Not if you ever want to enjoy eating in the cafeteria again. Remember, she controls the meals' ingredients…

So, the cafeteria was a safe haven. The stairs to the cafeteria, however, were a totally different story. The teachers barely set up camp there, they were too busy keeping an eye on more prominent trouble spots such as the area behind the gymnasium, where the really brave souls dared to have a smoke. Of course the school had surveillance cams, but, let's be honest, when did they ever work?

San Francisco's fiscal gap was wide enough for a parade of monster trucks to ride through and budget cuts were affecting schools badly. The director of Ash's school had decided to divert a little money from surveillance so that he could keep another chemistry teacher.

Opportunity makes the thieves… and the bullies.

"Oy, princess!", Alec yelled, making Andrew ascend the stairs even faster.

"Leave him alone, will you?", Ash interfered absent-mindedly. He was just in the middle of chatting up that really hot new girl from his Spanish course and Alec's yelling significantly disturbed the atmosphere.

Unfortunately Taz was already a step ahead of Andrew and blocking his way, Andrew, busy with concentrating on Alec, saw him too late, stumbled against him and there you have it, the perfect excuse for Taz to give him a heavy shove that sent him tumbling backwards against Alec who used _that_ as an excuse to push him forwards again…

"Jeez, will you stop it already?" The two idiots were seriously sabotaging Ash's game plan with the new girl. He was already losing her attention.

"What, Ash, playing White Knight for the damsel in distress?", Alec teased, who too had cast an eye on the new girl from Spanish class.

"Stop being an asshole, Alec and leave him alone. He's pissing his pants already." Ash returned his attention to the girl.

Now, in every person's life comes a line-in-the-sand-this-far-and-no-further moment that's on the one hand crucial to protect one's poise and dignity, but unfortunately, on the other might lead to stupid decisions. Such as Andrew whirling around and giving Ash a violent push – "I DIDN'T PISS MY PANTS!"

Ash would later blame it on instinct and reject all accusations that he might have done it on purpose, most likely it was a heady mixture of both, reflex _and _anger for being humiliated in front of a possible date. Whatever, the result remained the same anyway: Ash pushed Andrew back and goddamn, ice-hockey had given Ash broad shoulders and quite strong arms.

They sent Andrew flying down the stairs leading up to the cafeteria.

Never ever, not even on that dreadful day he had had to kill the dog, had Ash felt more helpless and terrified. He saw Andrew falling, saw him twisting and turning in all the wrong angles because he was hampered by the rucksack on his back and knew, just _knew_ that this was going to end badly.

Andrew's terribly pained outcry as he hit face first the foot of the stairs with his knee at the oddest position half upside down, half buried underneath his body, only confirmed his worst fears.

Oh good lord, what had he just done?

Ash dashed down the stairs and rushed to Andrew's side. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!", he kept repeating over and over again, horrified.

Blood was streaming down Andrew's face, from a cut above the eyebrow and his mouth. Was that a broken tooth on the floor? As Ash was pushed aside by Mr. Cramer, the history teacher, he could only think one thought, again and again and again: _I'm sorry._

And somewhere in the back of his mind, very faint, barely audible: _Dad is going to _kill_ me._

As the ambulance arrived and EMTs rushed in to see to the injured boy, Mr. Cramer gave up his position at Andrew's side, let go of his hand and instead focused all of his attention on Ash.

"The principal's office. Now."

_"Unless mom gets to me first"_, Ash couldn't help but think. His heart heavy with worries about Andrew and yes, himself, too, he sat down outside the principal's office's door under the close watch of both Mr. Cramer and the principal's secretary, Ms. White.

They needn't say anything. The looks they gave him were completely enough.

This time he had gone too far. Way too far.


	52. Chapter 52

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

It took Winston a while to figure out he was staring at a ceiling. Well, granted, since his eyeballs were burning and his head felt twice its size, looking was not exactly a piece of cake task, so no surprise he needed a moment longer than he usually would have to realize he was gazing at a cellar's ceiling. The pungent smell of bleach, however, gave him the decisive clue to figure out which specific cellar's ceiling he was looking at.

Groaning, Winston tried to sit up, half expecting to find his hands and feet chained to the ground. Instead his fingers groped the scratchy fabric of a gray blanket. Squinting his eyes and groaning again because a major headache was setting in, he took a closer look. To his surprise he found himself placed on a creaky mattress with metal springs, a faded pillow on one end, apparently meant to support his head.

What the hell?

"Didn't want you to ruin my carpets, dude." Guerrero's voice, from the far end of the room. Way too loud and the echo from the bare walls didn't help either. "Tiles are easy to clean. My living-room rugs? Not so much."

"What in the world were you thinking, slipping me something?" Winston finally managed to sit up. The room spun, but Winston recognized it nevertheless. Guerrero's subterranean torture chamber.

"Didn't slip you anything, dude. You brought that all upon yourself. Barman at Louie's gave me a heads up that you were losing it."

"You've got people spying on me while I have a drink?"

Approaching footsteps from the other side of the room. Guerrero's face looming over him, arched eyebrow and all. The expression on his face was easy to read, even for still foggy-minded Winston: _One drink, dude?_

The rattling of metal on the floor made Winston turn his head. Too fast – ugh, his stomach turned, but apparently it was empty. All he did was heave drily a couple of times. By the time he was done, Guerrero was by his side, rubber gloves on his hands.

"What the…?" Before Winston had time to react, Guerrero grabbed his right arm, rolled the sleeve upwards, swabbed a bit of skin with a strongly chemically smelling piece of cotton and injected him with something.

Cursing, Winston tried to pull his arm away – a fruitless attempt, of course – and only then realized that this was not simply an injection, Guerrero had set up a drip infusion!

"Saline solution. You need to rehydrate."

Winston opened his mouth to protest and tried wriggling out of Guerrero's iron grip again.

"Pull that out, I'll use restraints." It was not a threat. It was a statement of fact.

Winston's stubbornness almost got the better of him and he was on the verge of trying it nevertheless, just to show that Guerrero had no say whatsoever about him, when Guerrero continued: "Got a name. Dude called Jennings hired Michele's kidnapping. You're gonna help me figure out the rest. With a couple more scraps of info, we should be able to triangulate his hideout."

A second later he needn't hold on to Winston's wrist anymore. Winston slowly sank back onto the mattress, hoping the solution would kick in fast.

Michele needed him. What had he been thinking?

Guerrero went upstairs to set his rarely used coffee machine in motion.

... ... ...

Ash had expected a WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN THINKING-tirade, a sermon about responsibility, some slamming of doors, heavy punishment and, of course, lots and lots of reproaches. He hadn't been looking forward to any of that. But this here was far worse. His parents were standing around, looking at him sitting on one of the dining-table chairs, and saying nothing, absolutely nothing.

The school board was going to expel him from school, for heaven's sake! Only a very generous donation of Ilsa's had saved his ass from a police investigation. Andrew's leg was broken in several places. Ash knew very well, if he had ever deserved to be shouted at, it was now. But his father and his mother were remaining silent, eyes full of disappointment. Had Guerrero taught them that?

Ash tried taking a deep breath and found it was impossible. His heart was beating so wildly in his chest and his stomach felt like a solid block of ice, there was just not enough room left to breathe properly.

Truth to be told, Chance and Philippa didn't know what to say. This was... unbelievable. The dog thing had been bordering on alarming, this here was... good lord, what was happening to their boy? Why was he pulling one idiot stunt after another? They were losing control, they, who kept control over situations as a way of life...

The doorbell rang and startled them from their shell shocked state of mind. Philippa went to see who had chosen this not exactly great moment to pay them a visit. A second later a rather shrill, very loud voice cut through the heavy-laden silence like a hot knife through butter. "Does Ashley Marx live here?"

Apparently Philippa must have made some sort of affirmative gesture, because a moment later someone came stomping towards the living-room with a momentum and determination that would have made Chance go for his gun, hadn't the voice obviously belonged to a young female person.

A young female person with red-blond corkscrew locks and lots of freckles, to be accurate. 13, 14 years old maybe. Ash had barely time to jump to his feet before she raised her hand and gave him a resounding slap.

"ASSHOLE!"

"My friend Christina here is the skating partner of Andrew Brandsny, whom your son pushed down the stairs", a second girl, maybe a little older than Christina, maybe she only seemed to be older, helpfully informed Chance and Philippa.

"YOU COST ME THE FINALS!" Another slap to Ash's face. Ash, still more or less stunned, stood and took it. Chance moved to interfere, but a glance from Philippa stopped him. _He can take it. _

"Christina and Andrew had qualified for one of the USA's most prestigious junior level figure-skating tournaments", the girl continued explaining. She had dark hair and exceptionally pale skin. Her black jeans and gray shirt didn't exactly help lighten up her appearance, but she wasn't unattractive. "Sinister" described her quite accurately.

"WE TRAINED FOR EIGHTEEN MONTHS, EIGHTEEN GODDAMN MONTHS!"

This time no slap for Ash. Christina's first wave of anger had subsided, shaking and trembling she was gathering strength for the second.

"And who are _you_?", Chance asked, for a moment lost in studying the second girl. There was something about her…he had never seen her, but still… "How did you two find Ash?" They all worked quite hard on keeping his son's address a secret.

"Triangulated it", the girl shrugged. "From his bus route, the shop his sandwiches come from and the time he needs to respond to entries on his facebook page after school. My name's Helen."

Christina was ready for the next round. This time, however, her voice was less loud. Instead tears ran down her face. "We worked so hard. This tournament would have meant so much. I want to be at the Olympics one day! You ruined it all."

"I'm sorry", Ash whispered. "I'm so sorry. If there's anything I can do…"

Christina snorted.

Helen, however, raised an eyebrow. "Well, now that you say it, you could stand in for Andrew…"

Everyone except Christina looked at her as if she was nuts. She showed not the slightest hint of caring.

"He's one of them ice-hockey studs. Best player in the team, according to the coach. In this tournament it's all about the lifts – the pair that gets them right, wins. He can skate, he's got bulk enough to carry your weight… he'll need a ton of training… a couple of hours a day… but the tournament is still several months away." She shrugged again.

Chance and Philippa looked at each other. Hmmm…

"Of course", Helen continued, "…it's a bit unlucky that the tournament takes place the same day the ice-hockey finals do. You wouldn't be able to take part in both."

Open-mouthed, Chance stared at Helen. Jeez, that was devious.

Glinting eyes, the girl smiled at Ash. "On the other hand, you did say you were sorry."

Christina looked at her best friend and started smiling, too. _You really pulled it off. _

"Well, it's all up to you, Ashley", Helen said. "How truly sorry are you?" She nodded to her friend and together they left the house. As she walked away Chance noticed she was limping.

It took a moment till Ash came to his senses again. "What am I supposed to do now?", he asked his parents.

Philippa looked at Chance. Chance slowly nodded in agreement.

"She already said it", she told her son. "It's up to you now. What is more important to you, ice-hockey or trying to make up for what you did?"


	53. Chapter 53

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Upstairs, above his subterranean "home office", Guerrero had an apartment, not the one he really lived in, but one that he could use as a hideout, should the need arise. And it was handy to have a bathroom and a kitchen at the ready. Despite the water hose and the drain, cleaning up downstairs could be an exhausting task. Some things just couldn't be released into the public sewage system…

Nothing better than a hot shower and some carbs afterwards to revitalize. Caffeine, however, was not that much of a necessity to Guerrero. He definitely preferred tea. Every now and then, though, one of his more cooperative guests in the cellar needed a little help to get his act together. For those occasions Guerrero kept a coffee machine and a small selection of coffee varieties in the upstairs kitchen.

Deciding that decaf surely wouldn't do the job for Winston, he climbed the stairs, entered his apartment through the secret door… and froze. A faint smell was in the air that didn't belong here. Guerrero sniffed. Sniffed some more.

Smiled.

Drew – better safe than sorry – his gun.

Proceeded to the kitchen as silently as a snake on desert ground, no noise except a vague rustle of air.

The kitchen door was open. The coffee machine was making happy bubbling noises. Judging from the smell, Ilsa had decided against decaf, too.

Guerrero put his gun away.

Then, in one fluid motion, he swung around the corner, grabbed her from behind, twisted her arm around and lightly encircled her throat with his free hand. "Breaking and entering is a crime, you know." His fingers applied just enough pressure to let her know he could do a lot more.

Ilsa didn't even flinch. She knew better than to fight back. "I figured not changing the door code after my last was some kind of invitation…?"

"How did you know I was here?", he asked, planting a kiss on her cheek and releasing her.

"Ames and I followed Winston's trail till we got to Louie's."

"He told you I had picked him up?" Guerrero raised his eyebrows and decided he and the bartender needed to have a serious talk.

"No, but the way he refused taking my money, growing paler by the second, it wasn't too difficult to figure out." Ilsa smiled at him.

"Where's Ames now?"

"Waiting at the office, getting ready for a long night of paperwork. When Chance said you were following a new lead, I had a feeling… You need every help you can get. Ames and I are both tired of sitting around. Michele is gone way too long now."

So Ames didn't know where his home office was. Ilsa had kept it to herself. Guerrero nodded appreciatively. Good girl. Nevertheless:

"Why didn't you just text me?"

"Winston, of course." The coffee machine had finished its task and Ilsa opened one of Guerrero's drawers. She elegantly rose on her tiptoes and managed to get her hands on a mug without getting cut by the machete being stashed there as a precautionary measure. "Let me guess, you just dumped him in your cellar, let him wake up all on his own, disorientated, hung over… and then hooked him to saline solution without warning."

"I gave him a blanket!"

Ilsa harrumphed, filled the coffee mug and proceeded towards the secret door. Guerrero didn't stop her.

… … …

Ames had just finished spreading out all documents they had regarding Michele's disappearance when the security alert notified her of a visitor coming. A quick glance at the monitors revealed Ash riding up the elevator. At first she thought it was the black and white display, but when he stepped into the lobby she saw that her eyes hadn't deceived her. He sported an impressive bruise on his left cheek and a swollen lower lip.

"Whoa, first ice-skating lesson that hard?"

"Didn't make it onto the ice", Ash grumbled. "Had a discussion with my team mates first. The finals thing…" He turned to walk up the stairs, but Ames beckoned him into the kitchen area.

"Looks like they believe in "actions speak louder than words"..."

He shrugged his shoulders. "You could say so."

Ames smiled and handed him a cold pack. "You're going to be expelled from the ice-rink next?"

"No, we're guys, we don't rat each other out. We've got a code." He put the pack on his cheek.

"One day we really need to work on your sensibility for political correctness…"

… … …

Ilsa didn't have to say anything. The look on her face spoke volumes. She crouched down beside Winston and handed him the coffee mug.

Silence stretched between them. Winston eyed his coffee, let its heat warm his fingers till the sensation became uncomfortable. When he looked up, Ilsa was still focused on him.

"I know it was idiotic", he said.

"Have you given up on us?"

Winston frowned. "What…?"

"Back when we first made contact… after Marshall's death… that night at the charity event, when someone opened fire and Chance told me that I should stay with him. One of the biggest mistakes I've ever made was not adhering to his advice. You all knew what you were doing and I should have just trusted you. Instead I ran off."

"I didn't run off!"

"Looks like an escape plan to me", Ilsa scoffed and tapped the IV bag. "And a bloody gormless one at that. We might not have found Michele yet, but one thing I'm pretty sure about, we won't find her at the bottom of a bottle."

Winston looked away.

"We've got your back, Winston. Always. Chance is already out on the street, per Guerrero's instructions. Tonight we'll go over everything we have. We'll find her." She took his hand and squeezed it. "We won't let you down."

He closed his eyes, hoping the tears he felt pooling behind his lids wouldn't crawl out.

… … …

Chance came back to the warehouse shortly after Ash's arrival. "The Rittberger jump a bit tricky?", he mockingly asked, seeing his son's face half-covered by a cold pack.

"Very funny, dad…" Ash threw the pack at him. His father stepped aside and it landed on the worktop table with a squish. Only now Chance had a complete view of the damage to his son's face.

"Another round with Christina?"

Ash bit his damaged lip.

"His ice-hockey buds aren't too happy he'll be AWOL at the finals." Ames handed the pack back to Ash. Protest lit up in his eyes, why had she told…? But on the other hand, he wanted his father to know. He just hadn't wanted to sound like a crybaby, running to daddy.

Chance rested his eyes on his son for a long moment. The bruise on his cheek, now covered by the cool pack again, was pretty huge and the scratches on his knuckles spoke of a tough fight. Everything in him wanted to hug his child, hold him tight and tell him he'd make it all alright again.

But this was about so much more than a couple of bruises.

"You can still back out. It is up to you." Chance tried to make it sound casual.

Ash put down the cool pack, turned it in his hands. He could feel his father's intense gaze resting on him. This was so tempting… he'd have his team back… participating in the finals, probably winning them… scouts from the big leagues always kept an eye on the Junior level, some would surely be present… the chance of a lifetime, the first step towards a professional career...

But…

"I promised", Ash mumbled, barely audible.

The elevator dinged and in came Guerrero, Ilsa and Winston. As Guerrero rounded the corner, Chance threw an envelope at him.

"Jennings is big in Girl trafficking", he said, acknowledging Winston's presence with a nod. "Any idea what a white slave trader would want from Michele?"

Guerrero handed Winston the envelope, still sealed. Winston opened it, looked at a couple of black and white photos.

"I have no idea."

"Well", Ilsa said, already setting the coffee machine in motion again and also switching on the electric kettle, "We've got all night to figure it out."


	54. Chapter 54

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

"Full-scale white slave trade with imported girls from Eastern Europe, Asia, Africa… flanked by a sophisticated system of money laundry…not bad. Dude's a pro." Guerrero showed them a map of the world on the conference room monitors, arrows indicating what went where – money, women, gold and diamonds. Barter was not uncommon in Jenning's circles. Harder to follow.

"But nothing of that gives us any clue what Michele has to do with this shit or where he might be hiding her!" Winston threw down his pen in frustration. "Those red dots are relay stations, right? Where they keep the women till they're broken enough for work. She could be at any of those or somewhere completely different! It's a needle in a haystack!"

Winston felt himself tumbling down yesterday's abyss again. Somewhere inside of him that feathered snake awoke once more that told him to stop bullshitting himself and simply give up. They'd never find her.

Across the table Chance and Guerrero glanced at each other. "I _did _call him", Chance grumbled.

"Desperate times, desperate measures, dude…"

"Call whom?", Ilsa demanded to know.

Ames thoughtfully studied Chance, who was staring intensely at the shiny surface of the conference table. He looked frustrated. What could make him…? Oh…

"You called Joubert?", she asked.

The shock made Winston actually snap out of his downward spiral. "Seriously? You asked him for help?"

Ilsa looked just as stunned. Last time the Old Man and Baptiste had been around, Ash had called them in. At other occasions, they had come on their own. Never ever had Chance made contact first. Actively asking the Old Man for help… it was a big thing.

"He should be here any minute", Chance mumbled, his eyes resting on Winston. _I won't let you down. No matter what it takes._

"I'm not sure I understand…" Ilsa. To be honest, she was not so much not understanding but actually being pretty pissed with Guerrero. How dare he not mentioning this to her?

"When the Old Man initially made contact with Ash, Chance and he came to an agreement. No assassinations anymore, but other jobs are okay as long as nobody gets killed on purpose", Guerrero explained.

"So he got involved in girl trafficking and you were _okay _with that?" Ames couldn't believe it. Chance quickly threw his hands up in defense:

"Joubert and Baptiste handle the security side of the money laundry part."

Both Ames and Ilsa made disgruntled snorting noises – as if that made anything better… all those red dots on Guerrero's maps – they represented places of unfathomable pain, despair, sorrow… Just then the security system alerted them to the men in question's arrival.

… … …

"We've been doing security at several stash houses for drugs, but never at places where they keep livestock."

Joubert shook his head in an oddly innocent gesture.

"Neither heard nor seen anything of a hostage. Jenning's organization is part of a larger conglomerate with its fingers in practically everything from weapon trade over illegal waste disposal to the smuggling of exotic animals. That conglomerate is in uproar at the moment – someone tried to kill the Basil, the conglomerate's commander-in-chief."

"The _Basil_?" Winston frowned. "What kind of a gangster name is that?"

"Not the potherb, America's Master Gardener. "Basileus" is the title of the ancient Byzantine king."

At Guerrero's lecturing tone Winston puffed himself up and for a moment things were back to what they had been like before the unthinkable had happened and Michele had been taken away with Winston watching helplessly. But then Guerrero showed them a blurred black and white photo of a man in his fifties while Joubert continued explaining and reality set in again with all its might.

"Question who did it is quite decisive for everyone's future. The Basil wants to know who of his loyal supporters tried to take a shortcut to the throne. Same goes for the loyal supporters – they're all waiting for the Basil to bite the dust, but so far the iron rule was, nobody helps him along."

Joubert pointed at the map of the world. "System like that is way too vulnerable. Infighting would kill it off. They're not dumb, they know they have to wait. All except one, that is. We've been hired by the Basil to figure out who couldn't keep his fingers out of the cookie jar."

So he and Baptiste had a vital interest to help out, Ilsa realized. That explained a lot.

"Jennings shown up on your radar yet?"

Underneath the conference room table, Ames put a hand on Chance's knee. She heard the edge in his voice well.

"Working through the ranks is quite tedious stuff." Baptiste explained, shaking his head . "Had a couple of heart-to-hearts with some underlings, but nothing came out of it."

Footsteps on the stairs distracted everyone's attention for a moment. Ash, packed holdall in hand, was coming down to the lobby. This late at night? Slightly awkward smile on his face, he greeted his family. "Mom just came back home. She's picking me up, field trip early tomorrow morning, she'll chaperone… trying to make a good impression at the new school..." Deliberately remaining in the shadows of the dimly lit office, he stopped at the foot of the stairs.

Joubert, of course, knew immediately that something was up. "Come here, son. Want to see your face when you're talking to me."

Ash stepped into the light, revealing the bruise on his cheek.

"Care to explain?" The tone Joubert used made rather clear that that was a rhetorical question.

Guerrero's cell phone signaled, momentarily breaking the awkward silence stretching between the boy and the Old Man. He checked the display, raised an eyebrow and started working on the computer.

Ash explained the situation.

More awkward silence.

Then Joubert took a deep breath. "So you're letting your team down?"

Ash's answer came a lot faster than Chance had expected: "I made a mistake. I'm going to make up for it."

"By making an even bigger mistake?" Joubert's voice grew louder.

Ash took a step back and looked his grandfather up and down, as if he had never seen him before. Chance recognized the expression on his face – confusion, mixed with the vague feeling that something here just wasn't right.

"I'm not sure I understand."

"Your team depends on you. They need you. By joining in, you made a promise. How dare you break that promise?" Joubert's voice had turned into a low growl, cutting deep through the boy's defenses.

Chance knew exactly how that felt.

"Andrew is in hospital because of me."

"And you think this'll get any better by costing your team the finals? That boy had no business provoking you. He got what he deserved."

Chance felt his face burn as if he had been slapped. Listening to the Old Man's poison he was travelling back in time, ten, twelve years, to the period after he had been told that he was supposed to take over the family business one day… when he had been helplessly watching things slipping away, getting lost in conflict after conflict with the Old Man and more and more breakdowns in civility.

Once upon a time Joubert had been the closest thing to a father Chance had ever had. Losing his connection to him had been a painful, tediously prolonged process, and now his son was starting down the same road.

"I don't give a damn what you say." Ash's voice was not as cold as Joubert's, but he was obviously heading in that direction.

Okay…

Maybe it was because in the last few weeks Ash had been through quite a lot, dead dog, expulsion from school, getting raked over the coals by Christina and all… anyway, apparently he was not in for prolonged, painful and tedious.

"Who do you think you are? I made a decision and I'm gonna stick with it. There's no gray zone in this. Either you're with me or not."

The security system alerted them to Philippa's arrival. Ash angrily turned on his heels and stomped off, disappearing into the elevator to meet his mother downstairs.

The team sat in stunned silence.

"Quite determined, once he's made up his mind, isn't he?", Guerrero finally spoke up, approvingly, but with a hint of something else in his voice. The boy was quite a severe judge, hard on himself… and on others? _No gray zone…._

"The stash houses you've been doing security for, any of them fallen out of the schedule lately?", he asked Joubert.


	55. Chapter 55

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_Why don't you just go ahead and kill me? Keeping me chained in this hole for days is torture!_

_Kill you? Of course not! Not yet, at least. Right now you're way too valuable. In a ridiculous pre-mortem need to confess Kitty let you in on all her little secrets. Trust me, we can't wait to hear all about them._

_Then why don't you let me spill them out? I wanted to tell you everything, right from the beginning!_

_Patience, my dear, patience. We're all going to get together, including the Basil, and then you're going to tell us everything. If you tell me now, I'll become a target. Judging from Kitty's violent demise, it's pretty safe to say whoever wanted to take out the Basil is quite determined to keep his involvement under wraps. Stashing you away in a safe cellar is a piece of cake, but I've got a business to keep going. Don't want to end up with a bullet in my brain, somewhere between looking at livestock and introducing them to their new job. You're going to stay mum till we all get together. _

Two weeks of confinement in a dimly lit cellar room with nothing in it but a bucket of water, a makeshift toilet, a mattress on the floor and a heavy metal chain that allowed her a very limited range of movement between the three had significantly sharpened Michele's senses. Just like a blind person she had had no choice but to concentrate on sounds, smells, sensations to maintain at least some sense of orientation.

And to keep her sane.

What was driving her crazy, though, was that she had lost track of time. The first few days she had been too shocked, too paralyzed, to count the meals and, try as she might, she hadn't been able to establish in hindsight how many they had fed her. Thus Michele was not aware of the fact that she was already in custody for fourteen days.

Maybe it was better this way.

What Michele had been able to figure out, though, was the house's layout, at least roughly. She was pretty sure it was a three-story building, judging from the three different degrees of loudness when it came to footsteps and shouts.

There was an elevator, very slow, always rattling between the second and the third story, but either it was reserved for the higher-ranking men or it was too small to transport many people, since usually visitors seemed to take the staircase that seemed to connect all floors.

It sounded like their feet were pounding concrete. Occasionally there was also metal clanging, maybe when someone fell and hit the banister. Michele guessed this was not an apartment building, those would at least have had carpets, but some sort of former factory or office. She pictured a non-descript gray square thing, built some time in the seventies.

Good, that meant a flat roof and rather big windows, unless they had boarded them up. But even in that case... with a well-measured dose of explosives… Winston liked blowing things up. The Fourth of July had been like Christmas to him.

With all the unnoticed coming and going of people, the house probably still looked like a working factory or office from the outside, with a rather high wall surrounding the premises. They delivered and collected whatever they were stashing here – drugs? – with what had to be huge trucks. Their roaring engines sent vibrations so strong, Michele could feel them down in her cell.

Walls could be climbed. And trucks could be hijacked and used like a Trojan horse.

More than a week had passed and no sign of Winston, but Michele was sure, the moment he knew where she was he and his friends would come and rescue her. Winston could be like a bloodhound on a trail, not letting go till he had what he wanted. She had seen him getting obsessed over many a case. He would go through hell and back to bring her home.

Home to Hank.

Thinking of Hank made Michele tremble with worry, despite her own, rather dire situation. The poor man was probably going up the walls in despair. Yes, Winston too, but Winston was a man used to violence, he knew what to do, he surely was in the process of turning every stone right now, unless she got killed first, he would find her. As terrifying this whole race-against-the-clock thing was, he could deal with it. Hank on the other hand…

Michele woke with a start, switched on the bare light bulb dangling above her mattress. At least she had control over that. The building was very quiet. Combined with the fact that her last meal had consisted of sandwiches and milk a sign that it had to be either late in the night or very early in the morning. What had woken her?

_Rat-tat-tat-tat. _

Oh. Was that really…? Or was she imagining…?

_RAT-TAT-TAT-TAT. _

Machine guns?

_Kaboom. _

Explosions!

_RAT-TAT-KABOOM-TAT-TAT. _

Yes! They were coming to rescue her!

Judging from the sounds of battle growing louder, they had infiltrated the building from the roof and were now shooting their path free all the way down to the cellar.

KABOOM!

Another explosion, closer, but from the other end of the building. So they were coming at them two-ways, from the roof and through the main entrance. Hm, didn't Winston's team only consist of three people, the handsome blond one and the rat like small one Winston was always squabbling with? Michele had only seen him once, hardly more than a bespectacled shadow behind a steering wheel. He had picked Winston up from a restaurant where she had met him to have dinner together when some kind of emergency had come up, thus thwarting another of her attempts to tell him what a dying woman had confessed to her…

She definitely should have told him, but she had feared his reaction, had worried he'd laugh and tell her she was interpreting too much into the words of a seriously injured, already half-way gone prostitute. Looking at it now, chained to a dirty cellar floor, with wrists raw from the cuffs, serious stomach problems and in utter danger of getting killed once she had served her purpose, it seemed so laughable, being afraid of his reaction and him not taking her seriously. But he had done that so many during their marriage…

Anyway, they were now coming to rescue her, and successfully so, as it sounded.

Michele decided that once she was out of this hell hole, the first thing she'd do was tell Winston that she would never ever distrust him again.

The door to her cell burst open.

The battle sounds in the house subsided.

A huge man stepped into the room.

"Good morning", he said.

Michele started screaming.


	56. Chapter 56

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

_**A/N: Big thanks to veniceit, who helped with the toepick part, and, as always, to niagaraweasel, my wonderful betaweasel!**_

Direct ambushes were an art which Guerrero and Chance excelled in. Movies always make it look like "grab a couple of guns, as many explosives as you can carry, take a deep breath and storm in!"

In reality things like that take a little more planning.

The weather, for example. A big factor that always needs to be taken into consideration. Blizzard conditions require different clothes, equipment and concealment than rainy days, bright sunlight can be an advantage (when it blinds the opposite party), but can also easily help making one's position known (through shadows in odd places). Weapons react to temperature and humidity just like musical instruments. Moisture can cause guns to jam and makes explosives unpredictable.

And don't forget the time of day – attacks at noon are unorthodox but might surprise the targets. The classic time is the so-called "wolf's hour" between three and four o'clock in the morning when most children are born and most people die of natural causes. Those who are blessed with a regular daily routine and a nine-to-five job experience a significant reduction of bodily functions and thus enhanced vulnerability during that timeframe. Agents of German Nazi Gestapo and Russian KGB agents both used this hour to capture their victims and/or interrogate them.

The lay of the terrain is another very important factor. Inner-city ambushes are a totally different thing than attacks in a desert, a forest, a valley – witnesses-wise, transportation-wise, escape-wise. Of course it also makes a world of a difference whether the object of the assault is a vehicle, a campsite or a building.

With buildings the first things that need to be determined are the potential points of exit and entry. The question where most inhabitants might be gathered at any given time is of crucial importance, just like the question of how up-to-date the security system is and how many weapons might be stashed inside. Chance and Guerrero decided that in the case of Jennings' stash house a twofold attack would be best – Chance coming in from the roof, Guerrero and Winston coming in through the front door, Ilsa and Ames providing technical support from the van.

They had debated the use of explosives quite excessively, blasts draw cops like honey does ants, but in the end they decided they weren't planning to stick around that long anyway. So grenades and shotguns it would be.

At four in the morning they got ready to move. Getting over the fence was a piece of cake. Winston, as always, had a bit more trouble than the others, at one point even lightly scraped by a sensor, but thankfully nothing happened. Guerrero frowned at that, theoretically the premises' system was state of the art and should have reacted, but in the end he decided to put it down to lucky stars.

An already burst open front door, however, was a little too much to be attributed to plain luck. Not to mention the dead and injured thugs Chance discovered on his way downstairs. Like the pervert version of a trail of breadcrumbs, murdered and maimed bodies led them down to the cellar, where they found a prison cell.

An empty prison cell.

"Where is she? WHERE THE HELL IS SHE?", Winston roared into a dying man's face, shaking him by his shirt till Chance steadied his hand and Guerrero loosened his fingers.

… … …

Of course Ash would have never complained to his mom of all people how very badly his hands and knees hurt after his first time on the ice wearing figure-skating blades.

He did groan a bit, however, as he reached for a cooling pad from the fridge. That Philippa happened to hear it was purely unintentional, of course.

"Hard day at the rink?", she asked her son, got up, helped him roll up the leg of his trousers and took a look at his bruised skin.

"Damn toepicks", he grumbled.

Philippa couldn't help but smile. Ash wasn't used to the tiny little teeth curved around the front of the blade that skaters use to stick into the ice to get footing for a jump - hockey skates are smooth on the toes. He had surely experienced some VERY sudden stops…

"What are you doing?", he asked, nodding in the direction of the kitchen table where his mother had laid out several sheets of paper and a pen.

"Just work, nothing special", she replied, careful to sound casual. Ash didn't need to know that she wasn't willing to deepen the subject. Luckily he was way too busy appearing all manly and brave while she was treating his wounds.

Only when he had limped off to bed she returned to her place at the table. Chance's account of what made finding Michele so difficult, the fact that she had not used a computer but handwritten notes, had made her think. Ash was getting older and one day he'd see through their web of lies. When the time came to explain things, maybe it would be easier to hand over a letter… Or what if, for some reason, she couldn't be present to shed light on what happened in Whangamata so many years ago? He deserved to know.

_Dear Ash, _she wrote.

Noting everything down for Ash took hours, time and time again she burnt pages in the kitchen sink. Using the computer surely would have been easier, but handwritten documents could not be hacked and that was decisive here. Under no circumstances could this fall into the wrong hands. She had already gotten herself a safe deposit box.

When Philippa had finally finished her letter to Ash and was already in the process of carefully packing everything, another thought suddenly crossed her mind… a vague idea, a memory… She sat down again.

_Dear Chance, _she wrote.

… … …

Darkness.

Lack of air.

A hood over her head.

Michele had long run out of tears and her voice was hoarse from screaming.

"I'm going to tell you everything you want", she whispered as the hood was finally removed.

"Don't you dare. I have no intention of becoming a target myself. You're going to keep your mouth shut till I sell you to whoever wins the auction."

Michele starting sobbing.

"Don't cry." A calloused finger lifted her chin. "Nobody's going to harm you. Not today." Innokentij smiled, gold capped incisors gleaming at her.

She collapsed.


	57. adieu

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ adieu ~ **_

_**A/N: I've bought myself a highly enlightening book, The Little Black Book of Violence: What Every Young Man Needs to Know about Fighting by Lawrence A. Kane, Kris Wilder und Marc MacYoung. Parts of this chapter were strongly inspired by it. **_

"Okay", Ash said slowly. "Explain to me again, why are we doing this, now?" It was rather late in the evening for a training session. And Ash hadn't exactly volunteered for it either. In fact he had been busy eating his cereal and minding his own business when Guerrero had suddenly come into the kitchen and given him a stern look. "Third floor, ten minutes."

Ash had known better than to argue and had quickly followed Guerrero's orders, but now, with the chilly room temperature slowly causing goose bumps on his skin, his sore limbs protesting against any kind of additional exercise and a general tiredness telling him to go to bed, NOW, he decided he should at least get a better idea of what was going on.

"Because I feel like it", came Guerrero's reply and somehow the innocent words, out of his mouth, sounded a lot more sinister than they would have in connection with any other person Ash knew. "Are you in it or not?"

Tricky question. Training sessions with Guerrero were a treat and refusing one was equivalent to knocking chocolate out of a well-to-do aunt's hands. On the other hand, he was exhausted. Today he had practiced jumping for the first time and of course he had fallen again. Numerous times. Andrew, who had been watching in crutches from the boards, had counted each loudly, definitely having a good time.

Guerrero's gaze rested on him. Not urging him in any direction, just waiting. Ash had seen reptiles in the zoo with a very similar expression. Caimans, for example.

His aching knees told him to walk away. But what if Guerrero never made that offer again?

"I'm in."

Guerrero nodded, not appreciatively, just matter-of-factly, and took a sip from the tea cup he had brought with him.

"Why did you break that boy's leg?

If it hadn't been Guerrero, Ash would have rolled his eyes heavenwards and made some sort of groaning sound. Since it _was_ Guerrero, however, he reduced his display of annoyance to a minimum. "Come on, that was weeks ago and I'm paying for it. Big time. My buddies aren't talking to me, girls don't return my calls and every evening I spend hours on those stupid blades, busting my ass to get those monkey moves right!"

"You haven't answered my question." Guerrero put the tea cup on the table where they usually laid out the guns when target shooting.

"It was an accident." By now Ash was working hard to keep the frustration out of his voice. He was definitely not in the mood for a parental-style lecture.

"You pushed a human being backwards down a flight of stairs. He could have broken things far worse than the tibia, including his neck."

"I wasn't thinking!" Deep shame turned Ash's face red.

"Now we're getting somewhere. You were indeed not thinking." Guerrero took a step towards him. "You were in Condition White."

Ash's expression made it very clear that he had no idea what the hell he was talking about.

"In Condition White, you're pretty much a lemming, dude. Distracted – there was a chick involved, wasn't it? – totally oblivious to your immediate surroundings. Your awareness of the situation was down. You didn't realize there was a flight of stairs although you were standing right on it."

As much as Ash hated it, Guerrero was right.

"Scan your surroundings, see who and what is ahead of you, look at reflecting windows to get an idea of what is behind you. Pay attention to the lay of the terrain, be it a street, a room or an actual landscape. Look for escape routes and opportunities to find cover or concealment. It's called Condition Yellow."

"Sounds pretty paranoid to me."

"It can make the difference between hurting someone and killing someone." Guerrero's message couldn't have been clearer – nothing but dumb luck had kept Ash from becoming responsible for another human being's death.

What he didn't say out loud, however, was that Condition Yellow also provided a certain, if by no means complete level of protection from being kidnapped. That state at least enabled people to defend themselves.

"Condition Orange means you've become aware of some non-specific breach of routine that might or might not pose a problem. In that condition you need to ascertain if and what measures you need to take. Pay attention to whatever caused you to take notice, but don't completely focus on it. Never lose track of your surroundings. Prepare a plan of action."

Ash frowned. This was highly interesting, no doubt, but somehow they had moved quite a bit away from the situation on the stairs of his old school, hadn't they?

"In Condition Red, you know there really is a threat. This is when your plan becomes reality. Be prepared to flee or fight. Fleeing, dude, is always the better option." Guerrero paused a brief moment, then decided it was wiser not to add that you could always come back later and kill your adversary in his sleep. "Only fight when you have to. Never because you want to teach someone a lesson. Move towards your escape route, areas of cover or concealment."

Ash couldn't remember when he had ever heard Guerrero speak so much. Calm, matter-of-factly, but still every sentence sent a shiver down his spine.

"Last color – black. Condition Black means you're under attack. Someone wants to hurt you, kill you or kidnap you."

_Kidnap you. _

Now Ash understood. This was about Michele. And Winston, downstairs, whom Dr. Grace had had to give some sedating stuff, to keep him from tossing the place. He had been in this state for almost a week now. It was horrible, seeing the big man like that.

"So, what condition should you be in right now, dude?" Guerrero's voice, suddenly sharper, startled the boy from his thoughts.

"Condition…" He didn't get any further. A well-aimed kick to the back of his right knee sent him face first to the floor. Damn, how had Guerrero managed to approach him this suddenly?

Oh yeah, right, he had been in Condition White again.

"Stay down." Guerrero's palm on his back, applying light pressure, just enough to keep him in prone position on the ground. Then, to his utter surprise, he felt a gun being pushed into his hand.

"Fire at the target", Guerrero instructed him.

"From _here_?"

"So you think an attacker will wait to let you take the traditional offhand position?"

With his neck twisted as it was, Ash couldn't see it, but he was pretty sure Guerrero was arching a mocking eyebrow at him.

And rightfully so.

He spent the next hour practicing shooting from the oddest angles.

When they finally rode up to the office again, Guerrero felt calmer, at least a little.


	58. Chapter 58

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Winston was a basket case after finding Michele gone. Without actually discussing it, they brought him to the office, called in Doctor Grace for some sort of sedative medicine – a heart attack was the last thing they needed right now – and took turns watching over him while he walked around the office like a zombie, his fine motor skills significantly impaired and his mind only partly present.

After three days Grace slowly reduced the dose. They gradually got their old Winston back, but it was a desperate, broken version of their Winston.

"It does mean she's still alive", Chance tried to somehow console him, but of course this was small comfort. Winston knew that "being alive" did not, in any way, equate to "being well".

They still didn't know why Michele had been abducted in the first place, but whatever it was, it had been important enough to Jennings to risk a kidnapping in broad daylight, on a crowded street in plain view of dozens of witnesses. And to someone else it had been important enough to attack a house full of armed thugs, kill half a dozen of them and risk a gang war.

Jeez, Michele, what have you gotten yourself into?

Ames flirted with the pathologist in charge of the thugs' autopsies and Guerrero got very busy in his dungeon, Chance hung out with a couple of people he hadn't met in years and Ilsa paid huge sums of bribe money in all directions, but for two long weeks absolutely nothing came out of anything they tried.

Then, suddenly, a blip on their radar. A tiny, tiny blip, but a blip. One of Guerrero's guys knew a guy who knew a guy who maybe knew something about the fate of Michele Winston. He was quite spooked, though. They promised him the standard program: utter secrecy, a conspiracy meeting and absolutely no cops.

Since Guerrero was busy tracking one of the guns mentioned in the official police report that was going to be released the next day, Chance went to meet the informant at Pier 39, and Ames was going to back him up. If you want to steal a diamond, hide it in a tiara. If you want to meet someone in secrecy, choose a busy place.

Always a particularly busy place on Pier 39 was the first level at the Bay end of the pier. Dominated by the San Francisco Carousel, a classic 19th century style carousel whose sides had originally been hand painted in Italy, it attracted both local families with children and tons of tourists. The kids lined up for the intricately designed dragons, sea lions, dolphins and panda bears they could ride, the tourists crowded all around it to get a look at and, more importantly, a photo of, the scenes from famous San Francisco landmarks depicted on its outer hull, the Golden Gate Bridge, Coit Tower, Chinatown, Lombard Street, Alcatraz etc. Together these groups created a very chaotic, loud, ever changing environment, with kids running around, photographing tourists walking backwards unexpectedly, loud cries, shouts of joy, people arguing about spots in the line…

All in all – a perfect place for conspirative meetings. Chance recognized their contact immediately – the way he had a Spanish newspaper tucked under his arm and looked around nervously… He wasn't hard to spot. Ames, positioned a little further away, saw him, too. Chance gave the skinny, fidgety man a small nod which he returned even more curtly. Then he turned around and walked away from the carousel, just as they had agreed upon. He'd lead them to a place of his choosing to hand over the information.

Ames was watching from a slightly higher viewpoint, a café's deck. For once everything seemed to be going according to plan. So far there didn't seem to be anyone going after their contact, they had found him immediately, Chance was following him in close pur…

Huh? What the hell was Chance doing? He was stopping dead in his tracks (granted, not that obviously, but he was hesitating), looking at something – someone? – in the crowd… Their contact, oblivious of the delay, was moving further and further away.

"Chance?", Ames asked tentatively via earpiece.

Just then an earsplitting, very high pitched sound shot through the channel they were using, causing her to hastily pull the device out of her ear. People around her were giving her odd stares. Chance was apparently experiencing the same phenomenon, he was pulling the earpiece out, too. What in the world…? It was possible, that some radio frequencies from the carousel overlapped with their own… another explanation was a jamming signal, specifically aimed at them…

Chance turned around, made eye contact with her for the briefest of moments, very slightly tilted his head – Ames understood. _Follow the contact. Be careful. _

A second later he disappeared in the crowd, heading off in the other direction, towards the less crowded Pier 41 and the boats to Alameda and Alcatraz. Ames hurried to tail their informant.

There are roughly six different methods to get into position to attack a target: Closing, cornering, surprising, pincering, herding and surrounding. Some, such as closing, cornering and surprising, can be pulled off alone, some require teamwork, varying from simple presence for distraction to sophisticated maneuvering.

Pincering is definitely one of the more complicated methods. It involves at least two attackers working together, one doing the distraction part while the other, concealed, sneaks up from behind. Very similar to that is herding, where the adversaries split up to control available routes of escape, with one of them acting as an obvious threat to set the victim in motion and drive him in the right direction. Carnivores do a similar thing in the wilderness… The most sophisticated approach, however is surrounding. A group of thugs spreads out so that the victim passes alongside them. When he or she reaches the midpoint of the group, the wings fold in to trap the unlucky fellow. It is difficult, but experienced attackers can make the whole thing work even in the middle of a crowd.

Chance had done this more than once himself. He recognized a surrounding movement when he saw one. As far as he could see at least six thugs were involved, slowly closing in on their victim-to-be as they drove him towards Pier 41. A very elaborate surrounding maneuver...

Well, with that kind of target, it better be…

Chance was tempted to let him deal alone with whatever mess he had gotten himself into. The informant was threatening to slip away, he was their only lead in two weeks on Michele's kidnapping, Winston was coming apart at the seams, they were at their wit's end and desperately needed a new lead. On the other hand: His pursuers looked damn determined… and he seemed to be all alone. Hadn't he noticed? Where the hell was…?

They had always watched each other's backs…

In the end it all came down to Chance's gut feeling and a quick weighing of options. Talking to the informant was incredibly important, Winston's future depended on it, not to mention Michele's, but Ames could do that, while interfering with that surrounding movement playing out right in front of him was definitely no task he could leave to anyone else but himself.

Chance signaled Ames to take over the contact's pursuit. Did she get the hint? Good girl, she did.

The only way to break out of a surrounding maneuver is to somehow leave the center, as fast as possible.

So, using the crowd as disguise to get closer, Chance approached the whole hunting party just slow enough not to draw their attention. They were now quite a bit away from the crowds of Pier 39 and the thugs might set the last stage of their plan in motion any second. Their routes of escape were quite limited, mildly put.

This could only work with the element of surprise.

Chance sprinted forward, pushed an ice-cream vendor's cart sideways for momentary distraction, grabbed the intended victim, hooked his arm tight and forced him off the pier

After free falling for a split second, they safely landed on a boat, not exactly elegantly, but in one piece.

"WHAT, MATEY?", Baptiste yelled at him angrily.


	59. Chapter 59

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"What THE HELL do you mean, he left?" Winston couldn't believe it. He was stomping in small circles around the table with the radio equipment, getting more and more angry by the minute. "He cannot just leave! He's got an appointment! He's supposed to meet the contact!"

"Stop yelling at her, dude. She is going to meet the contact now and for that she needs her hearing."

In different times, with a regular client's life at stake, Winston would have, at least secretly, agreed with Guerrero's reasoning. But with Michele's life on the line, this was a completely different game. He was familiar with Chance's antics, had been on the enduring end of them more than once, but this time… this time… Not tolerable. Not at all.

"I'm sure he had his reasons", Ilsa tried to calm the waters.

"He saw someone… something… I'm not sure…" Ames' voice was barely audible, the microphone was picking up too many side noises – people laughing, children screaming, the music from the carousel… Apparently she was making her way through the crowd right now.

"Don't tell me he spotted some damsel in distress!" Winston was far from placated.

"Trust him." Ilsa put a hand on his arm. "You know he always has some sort of game plan. Most likely a completely crazy one, but still. Whatever came up, it was surely of great urgency."

"And aside from that, _I _can talk to the contact just as well." Kidnapped ex-wife or not, Winston was getting on Ames' nerves. Mightily. How many years again were they working together? And now that suddenly someone important to him personally was involved he had no faith in her abilities anymore? Thank you very much, _cop_.

"Stop being pissed and concentrate on your job." Guerrero's voice was strict, no-nonsense. If he was irritated by any of this, he didn't show it.

"Problem is the contact expects Chance, not you. He won't give you much time to explain yourself. He's good with knives."

"Jeez, this is getting better and better." Ames was still upset with Winston's lack of trust into her.

"What did I say about being pissed and concentration, dude?"

There was something about his voice that made Ames take a deep breath and concentrate indeed… a tinge of hardness that reminded her of fishing hooks, fingernails, kneecaps and desperate pleading. They were teammates now, but that wouldn't stop him if he felt the need to teach her something.

Thanks but no thanks.

She could really do without a lesson from Guerrero today.

The contact was still in sight. He was heading towards the more industrial parts of the area, where actual fishing boats still landed and fresh fish was prepared for sale at restaurants, markets, shops. Here the crowds were substantially thinner, especially since the tourists were all heading in the opposite direction, towards the attractions of the more appealing premises around Pier 39.

"We're heading towards something that looks like a cannery… can't really make out the name… Ah. Dobster's…", Ames informed the rest of the team.

"You still got eyes on the contact?" Winston's impatient voice.

"I see him just fine." The man was leading her into the inner yard of the cannery, out of earshot from any potential witnesses.

"Anyone following you?"

"You think I'm an idiot?" Ames really had to pull herself together not to shout back. This would have looked really interesting to any coincidental or not so coincidental onlooker. She had checked and double-checked her surroundings. There was no one on her tail. Her instincts were quite sharp and she was proud of that!

The contact disappeared around another corner of the cannery which apparently only worked nightshifts. Made sense, fishing boats usually returned in the early morning hours. Since it was now early afternoon, the place was completely deserted.

Granted, there should have been a watchman around, but apparently he was busy elsewhere. In hindsight that particular detail should have given Ames some thought, but at that very moment she was preoccupied with more urgent problems. On top of the list with the question of how to identify herself to the contact before he went ahead and cut her into handy little pieces.

Guerrero characterizing someone as "good with knives"? That was definitely saying something.

That problem, however solved itself, at least sort of, when suddenly muffled shots rang through the eerie stillness of the factory's premises.

"What was that? What the hell was that?" No one bothered to tell Winston to shut up. Ilsa simply smacked his arm with her hand.

"Ames? That sounded like gunshots…", she asked cautiously, which earned her a roll of the eyes from Guerrero. _That sounded like gunshots? _Seriously, that WERE gunshots.

Someone must have calculated where the contact had been heading, maybe even had put a tracker on him… "Get the hell out of there, dude." He signaled for the others to pack up and get downstairs – FAST.

"She needs to check if the contact is still alive!", Winston thundered.

Ilsa looked at Winston, hesitated, then: "Run, Ames."

_I'm sorry_ said the expression on her face, but Winston didn't care.

Ames, however, was already running. But not back towards the busy pier where she could have disappeared in the crowds. If she went off the premises the same way she went in, she'd be an easy target for any half-way practiced marksman. Too few options for cover. Damn it!

She looked around, but hiding here, in this small inner yard with nothing more than a couple of empty cardboxes, wasn't possible either. Footsteps quickly advancing towards her in the end left her no choice. She quickly produced the bobby pin she always carried with her and picked the lock of one of the cannery buildings. Somewhere in the distance a seagull cried and for whatever reason, that particular sound sent a painfully freezing shiver down her spine.

Just in time Ames managed to slip into what from the outside had looked like a huge storehouse. Once inside, however, she found herself in a tiny room apparently some sort of antechamber leading to the cold storage unit. Oh great, now she was really caught, especially since the moving doorknob told her the contact's shooter was still hot on her trail.

"Entering the cold storage unit", Ames told the team. "Maybe the temperature will affect his gun…" A faint hope, but there was the chance it bought the team enough time to rush for the rescue. Guerrero, Winston and Ilsa were already in the van, racing down Van Ness.

The cold storage unit was of gigantic proportions. And it was cold. Ames' teeth immediately started chattering. If she stayed in here more than a few minutes, she'd freeze to death. Too late she realized that all the attacker needed to do was somehow block the door…

…but thank God he apparently wasn't of the think-through kind of killer. He followed her into the unit, gun at the ready. Only now she finally got a full view of him. Good lord, he was huge! And unfortunately, again Ames found herself in a place that offered little cover. Only a few gutted Marlins and Swordfish on hooks and tables. Maybe a restaurant had placed an order and then, for whatever reason, not claimed them. Restaurants going bankrupt was no rare occurrence in San Francisco.

Ames ran to the back of the unit. Her earpiece was completely silent. Most likely the extra isolation of the storehouse kept the radio waves out. She was all on her own… at least for the next few minutes…

A bullet whizzed past her ear, hit a frozen Marlin, ricocheted, produced a loud, metallic BANG.

"Oh no", Ames thought, fleetingly, because she was still running and looking for cover at the same time "please tell me that wasn't the door lock mechanism. If he shot the electric door lock…"

But that was a secondary problem, compared to the more urgent one of being under fire. He kept shooting, one bullet grazed her arm, another her thigh, he was driving her into a corner, he advanced on her…

CLACK-CRACK.

The characteristic sound of a slide jamming up. Yes! The cold HAD affected the gun! Unfortunately that only momentarily slowed the thug down. He looked like he was good with knives, too, and now that he wasn't firing at her anymore, he advanced even faster. Ames stumbled backwards between two tables although she knew that it was useless, that her back would hit the wall any minute…

To top it all off, she lost her footing on the uneven unit floor. Maybe the gunman misinterpreted her fall as some sort of escape attempt, maybe he realized she was in the most vulnerable position possible, anyway he lunged forward the same time she fell backwards.

Grabbing the air desperately for some support, any support, Ames' hand hit the table and knocked it down – which sent the gutted Swordfish that had been placed upon it, probably for further processing, crashing down to the ground with her.

Up to one-third of the length of a Swordfish may be taken up by its, well, "sword" – a sharp, flattened extension of the upper jaw, made of bone that the fish uses like a spear to break up groups of other fish and go after the intended prey.

Let's just say the attacker fell unluckily.

It took Ames a moment to realize she was now dealing with _thug en brochette_ instead of _thug out-to- kill _her, but only a very brief moment. Then she rolled his dead carcass off her and started undressing him. She needed to keep warm till the others got her out of here and he wore a flannel shirt.


	60. Chapter 60

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Chance had managed to cushion the jump from the pier quite well.

Skill comes with practice…

"Oh, sorry, am I intruding?", he unabashedly answered Baptiste's outraged question, then scrambled to his feet and dashed to the small boat's cockpit. It had a classic ignition, shouldn't pose too much of a problem… The thugs on the pier were still busy regrouping and looking for their target. There had been enough tourists around to veil where exactly Baptiste and Chance had gone over the railing. Aside from that they were also a little bit shocked that their sitting duck of a victim had managed to pull a disappearance act just like that.

Never underestimate the impact of surprise.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, matey?" Baptiste was finally on his feet again, too. For him the fall hadn't been that easy to break and Chance firmly holding onto his arm hadn't helped. It felt like he had strained something, a muscle in his shoulder region maybe, but he had definitely been through worse.

Chance vaguely noticed he had lost the earpiece during the fall. Damn it, that meant his team had no means to locate him. The more urgent challenge at the moment, however, was that the shouldn't-pose-too-much-of-a-problem ignition posed to be one after all. It just wouldn't react, no matter how hard he worked on the contacts.

"Since I was busy on the pier anyway I'd thought I'd take a minute and save your ass!" Chance replied, silently counting the seconds. The thugs would discover them any moment now. There seemed to be some kind of malfunction prohibiting the ignition from jumping into action – which was probably why this sport boat had docked here, between the big ferries, in the first place.

"Ever considered counseling for your white knight syndrome?" Baptiste staggered forwards, toward the cockpit. Apparently his ankle hadn't taken kindly to the steep fall either.

"You were caught in a classic surrounding movement! Haven't you learned anything from me? They were about to fold the wings!" Chance fround, hesitated… turned around and lunged forward, tackling Baptiste off the boat and into the water with a big splash just in time to get out of sight of the thugs.

"I know!" Baptiste yelled at Chance the moment they emerged again, shaking water out of his eyes. "I _wanted _them to catch me! But of course you had to go and ruin it all!"

"HELLO! HERE! BIG, UGLY, DANGEROUS THUGS! WE ARE HEEERE!", Chance shouted, raised his arms and started waving them while treading water.

Baptiste grabbed him by the shoulders, dragged him under water and pulled him into the shadow of a huge ship, where they would be better hidden from view.

"What in the world…?" Holding Chance's face with both hands he could do nothing but stare at him, totally flabbergasted.

"What? Do you want to get caught or not?", Chance replied, unfazed. Was that the hint of one of his boyish smiles on his face? Oh bloody hell, Chance, you really do enjoy stuff like that, don't you?

This was so much like old times, for a tiny moment Baptiste felt the urge to laugh out loud at his old mate's reckless craziness.

Then he remembered what was on the line.

"I don't want them to know that I want to get caught!"

Chance stared at Baptiste, blinked, grabbed him by the shoulders, hooked his legs behind his knees and they dove again, once more just in time to avoid being spotted by the bad guys.

"We are a bit complicated today, aren't we?", he spluttered at Baptiste as they surfaced.

"It wouldn't have been, hadn't you ridden in on your bloody white horse! But this is so typical of you! Always meddling and creating a mess!"

The word "mess" brought back dark memories of a bench in a subway station in Washington. Memories of an explanation for a horrible deed that Chance now … had forgiven? Difficult question that Chance tried not to contemplate too much…

"Had accepted" was probably a more accurate word choice.

Chance knew very well, with Baptiste acting as "uncle" for Ash, he just couldn't let the darker side of his feelings towards him take over. Not without risking Joubert letting Ash in on a couple so far relatively well-kept secrets. As Chance had discovered back when they had confronted Cervantes down by the Triple Frontier, not letting his anger take over worked best when he concentrated on the current situation and its respective challenges. Usually there were abundantly enough of those to help ignoring the past.

"What is going on?" Chance asked, suddenly serious.

"You don't want to know. Just stay out of this, mate."

For a long moment the two just looked at each other.

"Tell me or I start yelling again", Chance finally threatened.

An enormous variety of emotions crossed Baptiste's face in rapid succession. He looked conflicted. Ashamed. Unsure what to do.

All of that only fueled Chance's curiosity. What was going on here?

Deciding to follow his gut feeling, he suddenly dove, this time without Baptiste, and swam in swift strokes towards the pier again, just below the surface. To an onlooker, an armed thug for example, it looked as if a not-too-experienced diver was aiming to secretly get to one of the ladders that were supposed to help the boat owners getting onto the pier.

Baptiste realized what he was doing and dove, too, staying right underneath the water's line just like him. This didn't only look unintentional, it also gave their adversaries time to devise a suitable reaction plan.

And devise they did. Chance came up the ladder first, swiftly followed by Baptiste. They were welcomed with several weapons pointed at them. At least three thugs were aiming straight at their heads while the rest was busy shielding the whole scene from passers-by coincidentally looking into the wrong direction at the wrong time.

Chance had to admit, they were very good at that. None of the tourists gave the whole scene a second glance. "Happy now?", he muttered under his breath in Baptiste's direction.

"It's about a woman", Baptiste replied, just as quietly.


	61. Chapter 61

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"Ames is fine." Winston started heading towards the direction where they suspected the contact had been shot.

"_Excuse me?"_ Ames' indignant voice via earpiece. "I'm stuck in a goddamn freezer, how dare you say I'm fine?"

"Your attacker is dead. You're clothed sufficiently. A few more minutes won't matter."

"It is COLD in here! I've got two grazers! And the contact is just as dead!" Ames' chattering teeth could be clearly heard over the microphone.

"Maybe he's only wounded! It's not like you checked properly, is it?", Winston yelled, already rounding the corner towards the man on the ground.

"I'm _terribly sorry_" Ames' voice was dripping with irony "but I was busy not getting killed!"

Guerrero instructed Ilsa with a nod to follow Winston, while he headed towards the warehouse to free Ames.

When Ilsa rounded the corner, she was faced with a heartbreaking sight. Winston, crouched next to the slumped body of a skinny man who had to be their contact. He had a large chest wound and half of his face was missing. Close range shot.

Yes, he was dead.

"Why wasn't he here? Why the hell wasn't he here?", Winston muttered barely audible, staring at the body in utter desperation.

"Chance wouldn't have been able to protect him either", Ilsa cautiously protested.

Winston snorted dismissively.

… … …

"Seriously, you have no sense of rhythm at all. Every young man should be able to go dancing with a girl. But of course, with what you children call music nowadays, it's no surprise you've got all the grace of an elephant."

Ash couldn't help but think that getting constantly dressed down by Christina's ice-skating coach wasn't exactly supporting his learning progress. If Christina was a chick from hell than her coach was coming from the arctic part of it.

Actually Miss Matsumoto was from Japan, a petite woman in her fifties that combined the humor of a tax inspector with the determination of Carmine smelling a treat and the attitude of a deep sea moray eel. Ash secretly suspected she was one of those Japanese demons in human form they kept mentioning in the anime movies Isamu loved so much.

Isu had even told him the name of a quite fitting one… Ohaguro-bettari, if Ash wasn't completely mistaken. A woman that turns to reveal a face with only a blackened mouth…

At the moment Miss Matsumoto was skating right next to Ash and Christina, holding a bamboo stick she wasn't shy to use whenever Ash fell out of rhythm. Not a rare occurrence, he was still struggling with the damn toepicks. At least he wasn't landing flat on his ass all the time anymore. Unfortunately "staying upright and not breaking anything" was no category when it came to points in that darn competition.

Of course she had promised to give him only light taps, but apparently her and his definition of "light" significantly differed. At the end of the lesson Ash felt totally exhausted. Never ever had he been so down, physically and mentally, after an ice-hockey game. Feeling dizzy, he sank down on the bench in the locker room.

"Aww, was the poor puppy beaten with a newspaper cause he didn't learn to give paw fast enough?" Ash looked up to see Helen leaning in the doorway.

"This is the boys' locker", Ash snarled at her.

Unfazed, Helen crossed the doorstep and walked in. She was still limping, just like she had when he had met her the first time. Seemed to be something chronic.

"You're feeling quite sorry for yourself, aren't you? You're trying _so _hard and all you get in return is yelling."

"Your friend is in the locker down the hall. I'm sure she could use help sharpening her horns or cutting her hooves", Ash spat.

"Shocking realization, huh?" Helen intruded his personal space now, bent down to Ash's sitting form, bringing her face into touching distance with his "This is about a little more than simply learning how to skate to music."

"Don't you dare give me an "actions and consequences"-sermon. Whatever I do has consequences and being a man means drinking what you brewed."

Helen straightened herself up again, eyebrows questioningly raised. "Who told you that?"

"Mom and Dad."

"Very insightful. You sure you're their kid? They seem so much more reasonable than you."

For a reason not quite clear to Ash, that last comment made him incredibly angry. Now, he was not stupid. The Andrew-staircase-incident had taught him to THINK before lashing out at someone, so he did not push Helen backwards against the next wall, which was what he felt like doing. Instead he threw his skates all across the room.

"I am going to take part in that damn tournament!", he shouted at her.

Helen smiled. "All I wanted to hear." And off she went, out the door, out of sight, like some goddamn ghost.

And not the Caspar kind.

… … …

"It was so predictable! Most ambushes happen in fringe areas between busy and deserted places and you walked right into the perfect spot!" Winston was shouting so loud, Carmine had deserted his blanket and taken refuge in the conference room.

"The contact LED me there!", Ames snarled back, then hissed. "Ilsa, this antiseptic solution works just as well with half the amount."

"I'm sorry", Ilsa apologized quickly, "I thought better safe than sorry…"

"You should have foreseen this! What the hell have you been doing the last few years? Haven't you learned a thing?"

Ames opened her mouth to retort, but at the same moment Ilsa brushed her cotton ball against a particularly sensitive part of the wound and all she managed was a wince.

"Stop tearing into her, dude. She proved tactical thinking by retreating into the cold room, knowing it would affect the killer's weapon. Using the swordfish to impale him wasn't bad either…"

"MICHELE IS MISSING! WE'VE GOT NO MEANS TO FIND HER THANKS TO THAT NO GOOD THIEF AND MY SO-CALLED FRIEND!"

Open physical confrontation was not Guerrero's preferred strategy in conflicts. They were so many more subtle options out there and the best fight was always the one that never happened. But that night things were different – Chance was MIA, they had almost lost Ames, Winston's behavior was becoming increasingly intolerable for weeks now…

"I said _stop it_, Dude." Guerrero walked over to Winston and positioned himself right in front of him.

Winston read the maneuver exactly like it was meant – dominant and provocative.

"When have I ever taken orders from you?", he thundered and attempted to push Guerrero backwards. Guerrero, however, ducked the blow and attacked Winston's knees with a leg sweeper. Winston went down, not so much from pain than a purely physical reaction – kick the back of the knee with enough force and the knee bends.

Adrenaline is a great pain killer. At the moment neither man was feeling the effects of what they were doing to each other. It also seriously reduces your ability to think clearly, provides you with tunnel vision and basically turns you into a troglodyte. Ames and Ilsa, who had taken refuge in the lobby, could only agree with that.

In toppling over Winston managed to headbutt Guerrero into the stomach.

They both crashed into the kitchen table, scrambled to their feet again, another headbutt attempt from Winston that he sidestepped this time, but not completely. In falling past him, Winston grabbed his waist. Down they went once more…

Ice-cold water washed over them.

Ames and Ilsa had not been idle and filled two buckets in the office's bathroom.

A couple of minutes later the combatants were sitting next to each other around the now significantly tilting kitchen table, with Ilsa applying more antiseptic solution. "This cut looks deep", she told Guerrero, eyeing a slash on his forearm. "Maybe I should stitch it?"

Strangers would have missed it, but Ames noticed the brief twitch of Guerrero's eyebrows, and so did Winston. They knew immediately he remembered what Ilsa had done to Chance with a needle during the spaceship sect job. Afterwards Dr. Grace had told Ilsa to apply for a position at the slaughter house.

"Uh, Ilsa, there's some horrible pain on my back", Winston groaned and turned so that Ilsa had to turn around, too, to take a look at it. Ames quickly handed Guerrero the field kit and in no time he had stitched up the wound himself while Winston put on a show to keep Ilsa's focus on his ribcage.

Over his shoulder, however, he glanced at Guerrero and Guerrero met his eyes. They both nodded slowly.


	62. Chapter 62

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**A/N: I'm sorry this took so long, but I had real trouble writing this, it took numerous attempts and without niagaraweasel's invaluable help I would have given up. Thank you, dear friend, for helping me so patiently!**_

Since they had hoods over their heads, were gagged and handcuffed, Chance had a lot of time to think about Baptiste's words.

_It's about a woman. _

At first Chance wondered if he had somehow misunderstood him, if his mind had been playing tricks on him, but given the look on his face before they concealed it, the tone of his voice, his reluctance to spill the beans…

_It really _was_ about a woman. _

Chance remembered their conversation in Washington about that subject all too well. The venom with which Baptiste had spoken about Katherine. The total lack of understanding. And now?

_It's about a woman. _

Well, at least this explained why the Old Man didn't seem to be involved.

They were transported on water, apparently in the stowage of some sort of fishing boat, judging from the smell. They could hear a rather loud machine stomping and pumping. Chance guessed they were held captive somewhere near the engine room.

Hm, that opened a whole array of possibilities…

"Don't you dare even think of pulling a Captain Hook", Baptiste hissed into his ear.

With a bit of maneuvering, Chance managed to get rid of his gag, too.

"Why not? The hoods would be no problem…"

"I think they're bringing us to the same place where they keep her…"

Oh, so the woman in question had been kidnapped? Seemed to be going around lately…

"Tell me about her."

"Greta's an engineer, specializes in environmental friendly technologies."

Baptiste hesitated. Chance wondered if the woman's image was flashing up in his mind right now. In the first few months after Katherine's death Chance had had the same problem.

"She was hired to watch over the construction of the new oil rig prototype right off shore", Baptiste continued, his voice a tiny bit more raspy. Chance knew that rasping only too well.

"Apparently they used some not so environment-friendly shortcuts while setting it up. She threatened to expose them in her public report, they kidnapped her."

Despite the cutting irony of the situation – a beloved woman on the run from dangerous people – Chance tried to pose the next question as cautiously as possible. "What makes you think she's still alive?"

"Greta spent the first few years of her career developing secret technology for a company competing with the oil rig builders'. That company only just announced they'd finally use an old patent of hers. The oil rig builders really could use that one to make their rig profitable. They tried to hack their computer. I managed to protect it. My guess is, they're trying to get the information from her directly now. " Baptiste sounded as if he was pressing his lips together.

With good reason. "Getting information directly from her" meant torture…

Somewhere in the back of his mind Chance wondered if somewhere in this could also lie an answer why Michele was still alive, at least had been a couple of hours before they got to the stash house with the dead thugs. Could it be that she knew something valuable that she was refusing to tell? If yes, she was damn good at resisting torture… they were talking about weeks of captivity now. But there had been no signs of any of that in the stash house…

"Greta's tough", Baptiste said. "It's been two days. Maybe she's still holding on. She's the toughest thing I've ever met."

He said "toughest" like "greatest" or "most wonderful".

_Tough like Katherine_, Chance couldn't help but think, then silently called himself to order. They were on their own here, no support from the outside. This was not the time to dwell on the past, but somehow all of this tasted very bitter.

Suddenly the ship's engine's stopped. Apparently they had reached their destination. Somewhere in the middle of the ocean…

… … …

"Don't get me wrong", Chance muttered under his breath, "but if those guys are building an oil rig, can you think of a better place to keep someone for torture? Why go through all this trouble to find out where they brought her? Seriously, I've heard this gingko stuff is really good to enhance cognitive performance, or maybe you should try Sudoku…"

"I've always known she's on the rig", Baptiste mumbled.

If they hadn't still worn hoods, Chance would have stopped and checked Baptiste's pupil reaction, to see if he had maybe suffered a blow to the head or something.

"Then why not parachute in? Or dock with a boat at night? No, your brilliant plan was to let them capture you and bring you here. And you call _me _crazy…

"Not that crazy when you're wearing waterproof Semtex shoes… Come on, let's pull a White Whale." The rasping in Baptiste's voice was gone.

As they took care of the guards and finally managed to remove the hoods, they heard a helicopter land on the other side of the rig. "Good!", Baptiste yelled. "Better than taking the boat!"

… … …

"We didn't expect a visit from the EPA", the oil rig's construction manager greeted the elderly man laboriously climbing out of the helicopter.

"It's our new "short-notice" policy. After BP we've decided to tighten the reins a little, if you know what I mean", the EPA inspector replied. He had a very peculiar way of talking, slightly slurry. Quite broad shoulders for an EPA bureaucrat, too, and was that golden chain that peeked through his loosely buttoned shirt in accordance with EPA dress code? But the manager was way too nervous about the prisoners, the upcoming auction and the construction short cuts to ponder the issue for any length of time.

… … …

Locating Greta was not too difficult – as soon as Baptiste demonstrated to the thug gang's leader just how high an oil rig really was, once you dangled headfirst over the railing, he quickly gave her whereabouts away.

"We've got about two minutes before they'll know what's going on", Chance told Baptiste as they hurried down a flight of stairs. "Maybe less if their security system is also up and running complete check-ups. But maybe we're lucky, since the whole thing is yet under construction…"

It turned out Greta was locked up behind a reinforced steel door with an electronic key pad. No time to play around with it. Down here, deep in the unfinished bowels of the rig they'd be trapped, as soon as the rest of the crew caught on.

"You'll have to blow it open", Chance told Baptiste. "Greta? You've got to step away from the door as far as possible!", he instructed the captivated woman through the steel.

Baptiste, however, seemed frozen to the spot.

"What? Can't remember how to blow something up? Don't worry, take your time. It's not that we're sitting ducks down here and totally outnumbered." Chance was listening intently to any sounds coming from above stairs. Theoretically their adversaries should have already noticed that something was amiss. Were they watching the weekly movie in the cinema room or something? What was diverting their attention so much?

"If I make a mistake, I'll kill her", Baptiste whispered, still frozen.

"Then let me do it." Chance held out his hand for the Semtex.

Baptiste, however, didn't move. For the first time in what, months? Years? The two men looked each other in the eyes. _Really _in the eyes.

If he handed Junior the semtex now, he was providing him with the perfect opportunity to pay him back what he had done to Katherine.

An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth...

On the other hand, Baptiste had never been unsure of his skills, but this time, with Greta's life on the line… After all these years he finally understood how this Katherine Walters had managed to screw Junior up so thoroughly – Greta had done the same to him. The mere thought of losing her, although he had only met her a couple of weeks ago, made him choke.

Could he trust Junior with her life? After having taken the very same thing from him? With explosives, of all things?"

Chance wordlessly took the Semtex from his hand and set up the bomb. He didn't even feel tempted.

A second later, Greta was free. And, to Baptiste's great relief, relatively unharmed. "They wanted to auction off my knowledge to bidder's from the Far East and Asia. I was not allowed to tell it to them. They wanted to keep the secret of the technology inside of me so that it would be exclusive for the buyer."

A vague realization about Michele dawned in the back of Chance's mind, but he had no time to think about it thoroughly. The explosion had finally set off the rig's alert system.

… … …

"The easiest way to get out would be to initiate a complete blowout", Chance suggested as they quickly retreated deeper into the half-finished rig. "With a little help the formation pore pressure gradient could exceed the mud pressure gradient… of course this thing isn't fully working yet, but…"

"No! No way! You're NOT going to blow up the whole rig! That would cause a natural disaster ten times worse than the BP ordeal! It would ruin the shores of California for decades, the fish stocks, the birds… even the sea lions at Pier 39!"

"There's a crew of armed thugs coming after you who already held you captive for two days and definitely won't hesitate to kill you, should the need arise, but you put fish stocks, birds and sea lions first?" Chance couldn't help but stare at her for a brief moment while he and Baptiste set up another booby trap for their pursuers.

"My job is not just a job! Protecting the sea, the shores, that's so goddamn important, why does nobody realize this?"

Chance nodded in appreciation at Baptiste. _She's a good one_, it said.

Nodding hurt.

But not as much as the ricochet bullet that whizzed past them, got diverted by the wall and grazed Chance's thigh. Oh damn.

Footsteps from the other side indicated that more thugs were closing in on them. Oh damn, damn.

Just then a major explosion suddenly silenced the approaching footsteps from the north side.

"That wasn't one of ours…"

A second later they had the explanation. Through the thick dust a very familiar figure approached them.

"Hello Junior", the Old Man said before turning towards Baptiste. "What did you get yourself into again?"


	63. Chapter 63

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_A/N: Great to hear from you, Jackattack! _

Joubert looked Greta up and down and finally shook his head. "Are you serious? _A woman?_ All this shit for a woman?"

Baptiste gripped the handle of the weapon he had taken from the thug on deck tighter, maybe because they could hear shouting coming from somewhere below them, maybe for some other reason, long overdue.

"She doesn't deserve this", he hissed. "She needs help."

"Have you run a background check on her? You can't know her for long or I would have noticed." Joubert produced something that looked like a miniature grenade and gestured for Chance to keep an eye on the lower gallery.

Baptiste broke into a bitter laugh. "You don't understand a thing, do you? She's sweet, she's innocent, she wants to help people…"

Chance had to bite his lip at that. This was exactly, _exactly, _how he would have described Katherine.

"Nobody is ever truly innocent. Haven't you learned a thing from me?" Between getting the grenade ready and watching out for the approaching thugs, Joubert was regarding Greta with an outright scowl right now.

Both Chance and Baptiste made contemptuous harrumphing noises at the same time:

"You're the one who hasn't learned a thing!", Chance hurled at him.

"You're so blind to anything that doesn't fit into your plans!", Baptiste joined right in.

"Erm…" Greta cautiously chimed him. "I hate to interrupt, but..."

Joubert threw the miniature grenade down the corridor, while Chance fired a array of bullets, then they all turned towards her.

"You've got thirty seconds, missy", Joubert growled.

"My timing might be far from ideal..." She swallowed hard. Joubert looked pointedly at his watch.

"There's something you might want to know, considering that you're risking your life for me and all…". She directly addressed Baptiste now. "The knowledge in my head these people are after… and that other people are willing to pay so much money for… All those formulas and stuff that's the groundwork of the patent… I didn't exactly _develop_ them. It's more that I … _obtained… _them."

Baptiste blinked and stared at her, obviously not believing his ears.

"These formulas were part of a bigger technology… weapon technology, to be precise. I guess that's why there's so much money in this auction they were planning. I know a thing or two about a really horrible weapon… I wanted to use at least part of it for something good, something positive that will help the environment instead of causing destruction…", she quickly added, seeing the look on Baptiste's face.

"But the money you received for the patent you made out of that stolen knowledge wasn't bad either…", he slowly stated.

She shrugged her shoulders sheepishly.

"Well at least now she confessed she's a thief she can't be too hard on you when you tell her _your _secret", Chance chimed in, looking sheepishly, too.

Baptiste threw him a murderous look. Greta, of course, was all ears – "Secret? What secret?"

"Oh, he used to be a professional assassin – one of the best", the Old Man replied nonchalantly.

"WHAT?"

"Hate to interrupt, too, but we're getting company." Chance pointed down a corridor where the approaching thugs had apparently recovered from the explosion. Without a word Joubert joined his side and they started firing as Baptiste grabbed Greta's arm and dragged her upstairs.

He was acting more on instinct and habit than conscious decision, though. His mind was reeling, trying to process all the new information. If Greta really knew about a secret weapon and the knowledge she possessed was that important, she would never be left alone. She'd be on the run forever. A new identity could provide relative safety, "relative" being the key word here... Question was, would he accompany her on a continuous life on the run - although she had lied to him? Or would he stay with Joubert, as a lesser replacement for Junior, for the rest of his life?

Never ever had Baptiste wished more to have a bit of time to himself so he could ponder everything in peace and weigh his options without pressure. Except maybe the day Joubert had sent him to go after Junior...

But just like back then there was no chance in hell he'd even get the tiniest breather - they were on an oil rig in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by heavily armed thugs...

"Go with her", just then a very familiar voice whispered by his side. "Don't even think about it. She's worth it. This is your chance."

Baptiste looked at Junior and couldn't help but shake his head. There he was, almost nine years after the Katherine Walters ordeal, and he was _encouraging _him to grab his opportunity to a different life.

This was more generosity than Baptiste could take. Suddenly it all made sense: Guerrero's decision not to kill Junior in the cabin... and his own, years later, during the Cervantes intermezzo.

He felt he should say something, but with all the gunshots and the explosions around them...

"They're going to take the helicopter!", Chance yelled. They were on deck by now, with a tiny lead, but it was shrinking.

Joubert suddenly stopped. A bullet grazed his shoulder, he started running again. But it looked like he had just realized something.

With more luck than anything else, Baptiste and Greta made it into the helicopter. There was no time for good-byes, every second they wasted was a second the helicopter could be hit by a bullet and be rendered unusable.

As the helicopter's door closed, Chance could hear Greta turning to Baptiste: "So, when exactly were you going to tell me about this assassin past of yours?"

If not for their adversaries in close pursuit, Chance would have laughed his ass off right on the spot. Better fighting through another dozen thugs along with Joubert than facing an angry woman who was fiercely determined to explain the difference between stealing formulas and killing people - in every. little. detail.

Joubert and Chance managed to escape with a boat. In the process they seriously damaged one of the rig's pillars, but hey, no blowout, just as they had promised. The ocean was safe for another day and considering the amount of thugs that had taken a rather steep dive while trying to stop them from getting onto the boat, the sharks were probably throwing a spontaneous party right about now.

It took them thirty minutes to get back to shore. None of them spoke a single word. They both knew what Greta's knowledge meant for the rest of her life. And they also knew, if Baptiste chose to stay with her, which he apparently had, this was the last they would ever see of him, too.

... ... ...

Chance saw no point in offering Joubert help with his bleeding shoulder, once they were back on solid ground. He was more than used to patching himself up alone. Chance, however, decided that a bit of assistance from Ames couldn't hurt to take care of the multiple cuts, bruises and grazes he had received.

To his utter surprise, though, when he stepped out of the elevator he wasn't welcomed by Ames, but by Ilsa, who looked slightly stressed out.

"Oh, draw a number!", she groaned at him more than slightly exasperated, rolling her eyes at his roughed up appearance.

In the background he could here Ames sneeze. Was that Guerrero's field kit on the kitchen table, with bloody cotton pads all over? Winston was cooling his forehead with an ice-pack and why the hell was the table tilting over so much? Not to mention the wet kitchen rug?

Guerrero kicked a chair towards him so he could sit down.

... ... ...

Joubert indeed had no trouble patching himself up without assistance.

He didn't need anyone.

Absolutely no one.

Something cold and intense, but not anger, washing over him, he opened one of his drawers, took out a 25 year old bottle of Scotch and poured himself a generous amount.

As the sun slowly disappeared behind the horizon, he emptied the whole bottle.


	64. crowd control

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ crowd control ~**_

When Winston arrived at the office, he was greeted by a sight he absolutely didn't like: A man in a rumpled suit with mismatching socks was waiting in the lobby. His hair was uncombed and the shadow on his face indicated that he hadn't had time to shave this morning.

The typical appearance of a client.

Oh no.

He made a beeline for Ilsa's office.

"We've got no time to take on another job!", Winston told Ilsa vehemently, barely managing to keep his voice down. "We've got to find Michele. Chance's idea that she might have obtained some sort of valuable information makes a lot of sense. We've got to follow that lead!"

Ilsa stifled a sigh. She felt terribly sorry for Winston and if she could have done something to make him feel better somehow, she would have, but as she had learned time and time again over the past few years, there were things money just couldn't buy. Michele's whereabouts, for example. Or peace of mind.

"We _are _already following that lead. Guerrero is once again going through all of her telephone calls, her credit card bills, the patients she had at the hospital. But this man out there in the lobby, he needs our help, too. Yesterday his dog was shot in his yard, this morning somebody manipulated the brakes of his car..."

"Why doesn't he go to the police? Shot dog, manipulated breaks, these are serious threats, they're legally bound to help him!" Now Winston was definitely not keeping his voice down anymore.

Chance came downstairs, alerted. Seeing his friend gesturing madly in Ilsa's office, he immediately knew what was going on.

"He's got his reasons not to want to involve the police. Couple of years back he evaded an investigation in a tax dodging case. If he goes to them now..."

"So we're helping a criminal?"

Chance gave him a pointed look that spoke volumes - _innocence is a slippery thing_.

"We're helping a human being that's scared to death, has no one else to turn to and needs us. Now."

At this very moment the new client stuck his head into Ilsa's office: "Excuse me, but how long do you usually keep your clients waiting? It's been half an hour now, there's not even a single newspaper in your waiting area to distract me and you haven't offered me coffee yet!"

While Ilsa with all polite coldness decades in board meetings had taught her explained to the client that he was hiring a crew to _protect_ him, not to _serve_ him, Chance aimed an apologetic shrug at Winston: _That they're in mortal danger doesn't necessarily make them likeable. _

... ... ...

Joubert always parked his car a bit away from the warehouse and always at a different spot. This was not so much about keeping Junior safe, he told himself, than about making sure Ash was well-protected.

The boy had so much potential. It would be a pity if anything happened to him, just because one of his old enemies followed him and decided to take revenge by harming his grandkid.

Not that whoever dared that would have much time to enjoy his triumph, but still... Joubert very much preferred Ash alive and well.

As he walked towards the warehouse, he quickly checked his Cayman bank account with his smartphone. The rest of the money had arrived, just as he and the client had agreed upon.

Very good.

He would have hated having to teach that particular client a lesson. He was a rich man with a lot more than just the one enemy Joubert had gotten rid of for him. This could turn into a long-lasting, very profitable business relationship. And since the client had like-minded sons, there even was the possibility to bequeath this relationship to Ash one day. No better foundation for a business than a long-standing client base.

Right before he went to enter the warehouse he threw the newspaper away he had bought a couple of blocks ago. It was practically unread, Joubert had only been interested in a small article somewhere in the middle: _Industrial tycoon found dead in his pool after heart attack. _

Succinylcholine. Really one of the best discoveries in the field of pharmacy ever made.

... ... ...

"The guy writes a tell-it-all blog about a paramilitary group and then he's _surprised _they're trying to kill him?" Winston just couldn't believe it.

"Nobody ever said our clients have to be smart", Chance replied, adding an extra spoon of sugar to Winston's coffee. Maybe that would somehow placate him.

"He's an arrogant asshole _and_ he's stupid! What a goddamn waste of time this is!"

Slowly but surely Chance was getting a very good idea of how Winston and Guerrero had received their mutual defensive wounds the day they lost that contact at Pier 39. And why Ilsa had had to replace the kitchen table.

"So now we're only helping people with an average IQ of 110 or higher? Maybe we should make them pass a test first. I'm sure Ilsa could get the Foundation's HR department to design one especially for our needs."

Remembering that day at the Pier of course also reminded Chance of Baptiste's abrupt departure.

It was a good thing he was gone. One constant reminder of his past less. Chance unconsciously tugged at the wristwatch he had been wearing for the past few days. Only the Old Man left now, and since his argument with Ash he hadn't shown his face around the office anymore, so...

The security system bleeped, alerting them to a visitor. Chance glanced at the monitor...

Oh great, speak of the devil.

... ... ...

Truth to be told, Ash had missed his grandfather, and when he appeared at the office, telling him he could help with his rhythm problem, he was happy to see him again.

He didn't waste his time and energy on wondering how the hell Grandpa knew about his latest ice-skating trouble. In this family they always found everything out. He was not, however, willing to make up just like that. Ash felt he was entitled to at least a bit of teenage snappishness, after the Old Man's unfair accusations last time they had met.

"Don't take it personally, but Ames could surely teach me better", he told Joubert as his grandfather was choosing the right music on the portable CD player.

Joubert was actually a pretty good dancer. Over the years a surprising number of jobs had required him to shake a leg before the deed. People are usually less watchful when they dance, and hardly anyone notices a tiny prick with a needle from a specially designed signet ring, for example.

"Yeah, but I've got no boobs to distract you", he replied drily, recognizing Ash's slightly defiant tone as what it was, a subtle reminder of their disagreement a couple of weeks ago. Good. The boy wasn't willing to forgive just like that. That was something he could work with.

"That's what I meant...", Ash grinned.

"Your father talk to you about the bees and the flowers yet?" The Old Man had posed the question in a joking manner, but something about his face told Ash that this was an offer. Should he ever want to talk about ... stuff ... from his grandfather he wouldn't get a lecture on birth control and responsibility.

For now, however, there were more urgent problems at hand. He was curious, yes, but so far he hadn't met a girl he really wanted to satisfy this particular curiosity yet.

"I always seem to be slightly behind the beat", Ash explained what made his skating lessons hell lately.

"Then let's see what we can do about it." The Old Man turned on the music.


	65. Chapter 65

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Of course their client hadn't done the research for his tell-it-all blog about the paramilitary group himself - dumb luck had led him to a run-down bar in the middle of Arizonan nowhere one evening. Late in the night, over a couple of beers too many, a young man had told him his life's story: Violent childhood, school drop-out, the paramilitary group becoming the closest thing to a family he had for a while - till they rounded up on a helpless old man and almost beat him to death.

After hearing that they felt determined to solve this case more because of the young man than because of their actual client.

Nevertheless Winston insisted they'd keep Guerrero out of it, he should concentrate on snooping through Michele's things. "We'll figure this out ourselves." Then he had hacked into the Arizonan bar's credit card bills of the night in question, more ruthless and determined than Chance had ever seen him.

"I do know a thing or two about computers", he snarled as he presented the rest of the team with a name. He would have never admitted it, but countering the various spy ware programs Guerrero had installed on his computer over the years had taught him well.

The name alone, however, wasn't very helpful. After breaking away from the paramilitary group the young man, Sean Walding, had gone into hiding. Now, unless you've got help from a professional of Guerrero's league, "going into hiding" wasn't really _going into hiding_, it was more like becoming a little less visible. An hour of research later and Winston (with a little secret help from Guerrero, who quietly adjusted Winston's search parameters) located Walding in Texas, where he was working for a private security company under a different name. He seemed to be pretty paranoid, though. Had changed his address at least a dozen times.

"This weekend he's working as a security guard at a big hard rock event, the Solemnstone Festival", Winston explained to the others, showing them a selection of advertisements that announced several high class acts and a live band reunion.

"Impressive", Ames remarked.

Chance raised an eyebrow at her _You like hard rock?_

She gave him a mischievous smile. _I'm full of surprises. _

"I've heard of Solemnstone, but I've never heard of that town", she then said out loud, turning away from him but keeping that smile.

"One of those middle-sized towns hit especially hard by the economical crisis of the past few years." Winston changed to a picture of the area where the concert was supposed to take place. "Used to be the premises of a huge slaughterhouse with adjacent meat factory. Most buildings are torn down by now, leaving huge free spaces in between the rest, ideal to set up multiple stages and simplifies electricity supply."

"We should try and talk to Walding there. Will spook him a lot less than knocking on his door", Chance suggested. No one disagreed.

"What are we going to do, pose as concert goers?" Ilsa critically studied the photo of the former slaughterhouse's premises. The area was roughly horseshoe shaped, with four entrances and seven exits, two of them solely reserved for rescue forces. "This looks pretty vast."

"I'll show up at their HQ as an additional police officer from Amarillo - administrative assistance. Will give me the chance to access their duty roster, so I can see where Walding is positioned. Thus I can direct Ames - she'll impersonate a reporter from some local radio station. This'll give her an opportunity to chat him up without raising his suspicion." Chance looked at Ames who nodded in agreement, now concentrated and serious.

"Winston and Ilsa back us up as actual concert goers - you in the VIP lounge", he looked at Ilsa, "and _you_ among the masses."

Predictably, Winston puffed up in protest. "Why can't I be administrative assistance? I've been a cop for twenty years and..."

...and with his size there was nothing he hated more than having to squeeze himself through huge throngs of people.

Which of course Chance and the others knew. But Winston was so on edge at the moment... and so not really into this job... As a concert goer he'd be off Guerrero's back and at the same time could not cause too much harm with erratic behavior.

Winston knew Chance long enough to see when arguing was fruitless. Grumbling, he accepted his part of the plan. "What about him?" He jerked a thumb in the direction of the client, eating take away Chinese food in the lobby and apparently not liking it.

"Excuse me?", he yelled. "I'm not sure if you realize this, but if you're aiming at protecting people, maybe your first step should be serving them less fatty food. This is surely sky rocketing my cholesterol level!"

"He'll stay with Guerrero, here in San Francisco."

Winston looked at Chance for a moment, then slowly an evil smile spread across his face. "Oh, I'm sure our partner Mr. Guerrero will get you something healthier when you're staying with him", he addressed the client, yelling over to him from the conference room. "Just ask him nicely."

Ilsa briefly wondered if she should somehow object. They were pretty much throwing the unsuspecting man to a rather unscrupulous wolf - her inner eye showed her the client, tied up into a nice bundle on the floor of Guerrero's dungeon, after demanding organic vegetables and meat from species-appropriate husbandry.

But then the good man put his take out box down, looked around and said: "Man, you should really hire a competent interior designer for this place! This style is _so _outdated!"

"Yes, let's leave him to Guerrero", she agreed.


	66. Chapter 66

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Solemnstone Festival was set to begin at 11 am. The town had spent two years meticulously planning and preparing the event. The municipal county had hired renowned experts, created multiple committees, even consulted a research group from the Texas Tech University in Lubbock to look over everything one more time, just to be on the safe side. Fire brigades and the local PD had spent months practicing and going over various scenarios, from sudden thunderstorms to an accident with the electricity to mass food poisoning from one of the vendor stalls. The hospitals in a 50 mile radius were working with extra shifts.

Unfortunately, you can't think of everything.

They were expecting 400.000 visitors throughout the day and these visitors were supposed to feel at home and safe, so they'd spend as much money in town as possible. The Solemnstone Festival was targeting an older audience, family men who'd like to relive the "good old days" a little, when they had been young and wild. As Ames had already noticed, the festival's organizers had managed to hire some true class acts, even a band reunion was scheduled as one of the event's highlights. Three years ago in the South the Festival had been a huge success, everybody hoped to be able to outdo that and hopefully get even more media coverage.

Be careful what you wish for.

... ... ...

Chance was the first to go into the field. It was his job to establish where exactly Walding would be working that day. Usually they would have pulled that kind of information from the security company's files, but as Guerrero had informed them, a little irritated, their server had gone down pretty much around the time they had the final schedule ready and thus the company itself could only rely on handwritten lists. Quite an amount of paper, with 1300 guards scheduled to appear, and not very handy. The police, whose copy Chance wanted to see, would have trouble establishing how many security personnel when and where they could rely on.

What a timing for a server failure.

"I've got eyes on you", Guerrero told Ilsa via ear piece.

"Do I want to know how?"

"Military satellite, highly illegal..."

She could hear the amusement in his voice.

"I remember. We used that to keep track on Chance when he was rescuing my friend from that South American crime lord. You're paranoid. This is Texas, not the Triple Frontier."

"Better safe than sorry."

Ilsa sighed. There was no discussing security measures with Guerrero. Hopefully they'd find this Sean Walding soon, before his over protectiveness got them all court-martialed.

... ... ...

Out of habit, Ames checked out twitter, just a quick peek at what her friends were up to and maybe a brief look at what the crew of Blood and Bone China had to say about the current financing problems of the show. She was really worried, this was one of her favorite web series...

Huh? Ames frowned, then checked again. Solemnstone festival was one of the top ten wordwide trends... very strange. So far she had regarded the event as some sort of Woodstock nostalgia kind of thing, only with hard rock. It was aimed at a rather specific audience... most of them probably didn't use twitter all that much...

Ames took a closer look at the tweets in question. To her utter surprise, tons of rather young people, late teens, early twenties, were discussing going there. They kept mentioning "flashmob with freebies" and there were also references to facebook.

"You're not pursuing your favorite pastime activity of _chatting _on a company smartphone while sitting right next to me?", Ilsa asked, furrowing her brows. Ames did like to bend the rules a little, but she usually didn't rub it in so blatantly.

"Look at that!" Ames showed her the facebook page she had found, following the hints on twitter.

"What in the world...?" Ilsa motioned Winston to come over and take a look.

"Flashmob announcement? With the promise of a free party night for those who appear most drunk? Who the hell comes up with such BS?"

"Flashmob announcements come up on facebook all the time, but this looks different." Ames showed them a couple of other pages, for example the call-up to pay the North American Turtle Convention a visit on the International Day of the Turtle.

"See? The Solemnstone one looks way more professional... with detailed information how to get there, where to gather, when...apparently they're planning to appear after the band reunion took place. At least they won't ruin that."

"Those college kids really have too much time on their hands...", Winston grumbled.

They informed Chance about the planned flashmob, but then decided to leave it at that for the time being, although Guerrero announced that he'd keep an eyes on things.

It was strange that someone had poured so much energy in organizing this thing, but as Winston had said, some people just need a real hobby.

Outside the temperature was rising. Drunk people in hot weather. Not an ideal combination.

... ... ...

As Chance entered the makeshift police HQ for the event, he immediately sensed something was wrong. The guard at the entrance barely glanced at his credentials, he just waved him through, even pointed him towards the monitors which, at the moment, were showing nothing but empty lawns and a few technicians doing some last minute set ups.

It all looked very peaceful, but the atmosphere in the HQ was everything but. "Are you kidding me?", a balding middle-aged man yelled at a rather small, more nerdy-like other man. They were both wearing uniforms, but apparently the nerdy-like man was an underling, at least judging from how he tolerated being shouted at. They were both sweating profoundly and, as Chance soon noticed, it was indeed rather warm in the rooms. Was the air-conditioning not working?

"What's the problem?", he asked another officer, filling a cup at a water cooler.

"Some idiot from Equipment distributed cell phones to our units on the ground instead of radio sets."

Chance immediately recognized the problem – with several hundred thousand people in attendance, the local cellular network would become very instable and unreliable. No surprise the officer in charge was going through the roof. The different police units unable to communicate with each other, with the security personnel, with the EMTs and with the fire brigade? Even in the context of a much smaller event, this would have presented a huge risk. Given that they were expecting almost half a million people...

"WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO, SEND SMOKESIGNS?", the officer in charge thundered.


	67. Chapter 67

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"What the hell do you mean, you're alone at your position? _Really _alone – as in "no one but you"? The police officer whose telephone conversation Chance was overhearing, let out an explicit curse.

It was 9.30, according to schedule they needed to open the gates now for the first concert goers, but they were getting calls from all over the place that the private security personnel was significantly undermanned. Great, now HQ didn't only, thanks to the handwritten duty roster, have a hard time figuring out who was where when, they also didn't know if some positions were manned at all.

With radio equipment clarifying this particular point would have been easy, but since they had to rely on mobile phones alone... A dozen police officers was put in charge of calling the different positions, trying to figure out who was missing and then transmitting the names to the security companies who were trying to reach the absentees.

If the security companies – the city had hired three altogether – had set up their own headquarters at the premises this maybe wouldn't have been so complicated, but it was standard operation procedure for all of them that their stuff was under police rule during events. No need for a company representative to interfere, especially not when there would have been three of them around.

Well, apparently on the day of the Solemnstone Festival standard operation procedure didn't cut it.

In addition to the chaos with the missing security personnel – "What do you mean, he received a message he wasn't needed?", another police officer, apparently on the phone with the security company, yelled into his cell – Guerrero had anonymously tipped HQ off to the flash mob thing. Another group of officers, in conference via cell phone with the fire brigade, tried to develop some sort of strategy on how to deal with this unforeseen obstacle, but it was already too late for preventive measures such as blocking off roads.

_And _they didn't have enough people.

Outside the sun was rising steadily in a blue, blue sky. It was going to be a gloriously sunny day. Throngs of people were already gathering at the gates. They needed to let them in, there was no other option, because the stream of concert goers would continuously swell during the next few hours. If they didn't open the gates, they'd produce a jam around the premises of gargantuan proportions. One they hadn't taken into consideration while planning the event and thus had only very little means to counter. If anything happened inside such a giant crowd, with no clear escape routes...there was no way around it, they needed to let the people in.

"Any idea where to find Walding?", Ames asked via earpiece. Posing as a reporter, she had already made it into the area where the actual festival was going to take place and was now wandering from one security post to the next, looking for their target.

Chance turned a little away from the officers getting more and more hectic by the minute. "No go so far. They're seriously disorganized. Something's very off with their planning."

"Mr. Murphy doing OT?" Ames smiled, then turned a little more serious. "At such big events some stuff always goes wrong. I used to exploit that when I wanted to get in somewhere."

Chance remembered very well how cleverly she had wriggled herself into Ilsa's big charity party. Gosh, how much time had passed since then...

Winston's voice quickly brought him back to the present. "All this organizational BS is slowing us down. The faster we talk to Walding, the faster we can get back to Frisco and concentrate on the important stuff."

Everybody knew what he was talking about.

And everybody quietly stifled an enervated groan.

"We should have just grabbed him at his home, poked him a bit till he spilt the beans and then cut him loose again", Winston kept on grumbling. "Why all this unnecessary hide and seek?"

"Dude, stay in character!" Guerrero chimed in from San Francisco.

"This is all a giant waste of time!" Winston was still outside the gates, stomping in circles.

"Winston, why don't you sit down in the shades somewhere, get yourself some ice-tea and take a look at Michele's telephone records once more? I know you've got them saved as pdf documents on your smartphone." Trust Ilsa to figure out how to calm the waves. Despite what Guerrero and Chance thought, conference rooms could be great training grounds for certain situations. "Once Chance knows where exactly to find Walding, you can go in as backup."

It was not that Winston hadn't already studied those records so meticulously, he knew them by heart...

Grateful, he retreated to a bench in front of the main entrance.

Unfortunately, his peace and quiet didn't last long.

"GAAAH! What was that?"

A horrible screeching sound had almost rendered him temporarily deaf. Him and all the others wearing an earpiece. And pretty much everyone else on the premises.

"Backcoupling! Looks like there's a problem with the loudspeaker system", Ames winced. "I think it just went dead. "

"The public loudspeaker system, meant to inform and direct the concert goers?" Ilsa, who had by now made it into the VIP box, took a critical look at the area stretching in front of her. So far there was still much space left on the lawns in front of the stages, but it was filling up fast.

"It looks as if 500 guards are pulling a no show today!", an outraged police officer just then told a fellow colleague right next to Chance. "Goddamn private security companies! Never reliable!"

"Even with Murphy doing OT, there's quite a lot going wrong here", Chance mused.

"I've seen events organized miles worse", Winston replied, but he did look up from his smartphone and thoughtfully studied the people passing him by, heading towards the main entrance, a large tunnel, about 800 yards long, originally built to drive cattle through, on their way to the slaughter.

It provided an enormous amount of space and was strictly one-way, only in. The matching exit, that the cattle never got to use, was a little to the right, so that the streams of arrivers and leavers wouldn't block each other.

To provide the now human passers-through a maximum of comfort, the city had equipped the tunnel with a brand new ventilation system and upped the lighting inside significantly. Winston could hear the big fans swoosh even on the bench where he was sitting.

Nevertheless somehow, he couldn't help but think, the tunnel looked a little like a giant jaw.


	68. Chapter 68

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

For several hours it looked as if Mr. Murphy had called it a day. No additional catastrophes happened.

The first gigs took place. Thankfully at least the musicians' technical equipment was working without problems. Much to the organizers' delight people kept streaming in from all sides, drinking, laughing, enjoying themselves. Quite a few weekend bikers were spotted, some of them even along with their pillion-chicks-turned-wives.

There were some sunstrokes and the usual amount of circulation problems, sprained ankles, broken fingers... thanks to the heat the effects of too much alcohol were setting in earlier, and there were a couple of minor arguments here and there. With more and more visitors arriving, lots of them using their cells to give friends and family an impression of the atmosphere and the bands, communication between the different security units was becoming increasingly difficult, especially since the security cams went out of order shortly past one, too. All in all, however, things were going well.

Still no sign of Walding, though.

And that was not the only factor that was keeping Chance restless.

He had asked around a little about the notification that the 500 missing security guards had received and he didn't like the answers at all.

"The security companies didn't send that notification...", he told the others via earpiece.

"Prank maybe?", Winston mused.

But although he was trying to come up with a harmless explanation, he wasn't completely at peace with the situation either. A couple of minutes ago he had, grumblingly, decided he needed to take a look from the inside and was now getting in line to enter the premises through the main entrance.

"To send that notification someone must've hacked into the personnel data bases of three security companies", Chance replied, deep in thought. "Quite a risk for a good laugh... and take into consideration that twitter thing... a couple too many coincidences for my taste." With furrowed brows he watched the crowd on the lawns become bigger and bigger.

While early in the morning the originally targeted audience of middle-aged men had pretty much had the event to themselves now more and more rather young and already rather drunk people were coming in, most likely more drawn by the twitter/facebook thing than by the old-fashioned hard rock bands. Although they were rather easy to spot, sorting them out and sending them back home was impossible with the lack of personnel.

As the afternoon approached it was announced on the main stage that the highlight of the day, the band reunion, would soon start. Naturally the people now all gathered at the center stage. In addition to that the streams of people only just arriving significantly swelled once more and were flowing towards the middle of the area, too. All together the people began creating a core pressure at the center that had the potential to become dangerous. Additional guards from the exits and entrances were ordered to reinforce the units around the stage.

The remaining personnel present at the east entrance received the following message:

_Close off entrance. South exit will be opened instead. _

The personnel at the north entrance received the following text:

_Close off entrance. East exit will be opened instead. _

Can you guess what the people at the south entrance were told?

The guards at the exits, however, got messages that read as follows:

_Close exit. Fire brigade detected problem. Main entrance will serve as exit now. _

"Chance?" Guerrero's voice over the earphone. "I think we've got a problem."

He, as the only one with a bird's eye view via satellite, could see what the guards at the entrances and exits couldn't: Without realizing it, they were turning the premises into one huge enclosed space, with only a single entrance and exit – the tunnel.

"Chance, what are we going to do now?" Ilsa, thanks to the VIP box also rather high above, could spot at least part of the problem. The people who wanted to get out were turned away at the originally designated exits and sent to the main entrance. This was increasing the core pressure and creating dangerous vortexes inside the crowd, wherever coming and going people were colliding.

Good question by Ilsa, though. Chance, standing in the overheated HQ, with the police coordinators around him growing more hectic by the second, honestly had no idea. This was huge, a thing of giant proportions, hundreds of thousands of people to protect, not a single client or the passengers of an airplane...

Someone was manipulating this, all these glitches just couldn't be a coincidence, but how were they supposed to stop whoever was trying to play god here...? First and foremost they needed the staff to reopen the exits and entrances...

"We've got to try an Aunt Linda, Chance", Winston suggested. "This is too big for us to pull off alone."

"Already tipping them off to the cage thing." Guerrero's voice via earpiece.

Huh – Guerrero and Winston agreeing? Without a single word of bickering? Were things really that grave?

They were.

To an outsider, especially not to their client who was sound asleep on a sofa at the far end of the room, with a little bit of assistance from a certain substance in his coffee, Guerrero would have looked totally calm, but the deep lines on his face had just gotten a lot deeper, ever since he saw the newest pictures of the concert area.

Winston was in that tunnel.

"Ames, you've got to convince the staff in your proximity to reopen at least their gates." Chance was still not completely sure what to do, but reducing the core pressure seemed like a good starting point. "Once the main event is over, two streams of visitors will collide – those coming in for the public aftershow party and those wanting to leave. If security doesn't react fast, they'll run into each other headfirst – inside the tunnel. Ilsa, try to get down, too..."

At this very moment, Chance was interrupted by a loud curse from the officer in charge. "This can't be", he yelled, staring at the piece of paper in his hands. "This just can't be!"

At the same time on the center stage a very timid announcer took the microphone: "Unfortunately I've got to inform you that there's been an accident..."

One of the band members had received a cocktail with shrimps in it... he reacted allergic to shrimps and had to be shipped off to hospital.

No band reunion.

Almost immediately, a wave of frustrated concert goers turned away from the stage, yelling insults, and headed towards the tunnel – which was still full of people wanting to come in. And with no communication between the security units... no options to make public announcements...

Inside the tunnel things came to a screeching halt. Unable to go back or forth, the people could do nothing but stand still, tightly packed like sardines in a can.

Winston was starting to feel claustrophobic. Sweaty bodies were pressing against him from all sides. He tried to concentrate on the swoosh of the ventilation fans that would keep the air inside the tunnel fresh and cool.

The swoosh of the ventilation fans...

Now that he was thinking about it, where was it? He was trying to concentrate, straining his ears... There was nothing.

Nothing.

The ventilation system was turned off.

Meaning the air in the tunnel, that currently some thousand people were needing to breathe, would soon turn warm and stale, with a rapidly increasing carbon dioxide percentage.

Winston looked around and wondered how long it would take before others would notice, too.

Well, for the moment, most people had their attention turned elsewhere. The lights on the ceiling were suddenly starting to flicker. At first barely noticeable, then steadily becoming more visible, they dimmed down, returned to normal, dimmed down, then went out, came on, went out.

And then they didn't come on again.

Darkness.


	69. Chapter 69

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Blunt chest trauma, or BCT, as it is often referred to, mostly occurs in car accidents and contact sports. In contrast to penetrating chest traumas that are caused by objects actually entering a person's thorax – a knife or a bullet for example – blunt thoracic traumas are the results of high impact collisions or enormous pressure. In car accidents and contact sports it's usually the former. In situations of heavy pushing and shoving, such as in the context of a mass panic, the latter occurs on a regular basis. High impact contact or enormous pressure doesn't make much of a difference, though. Both can cause potentially serious myocardial injury: Up to a quarter of all trauma deaths are the result of thoracic trauma.

Back when he had been a rookie Winston had been called to a nightclub where a fire had broken out. At the end of the day they counted seven victims. None of them from the fire. They had been trampled to death by the panicking crowd. Winston knew exactly what the fatal consequences of BCT looked like.

At the moment everyone in the tunnel was standing perfectly still. But this moment of shock wouldn't last forever: One single spark, one person losing it or a tad more pressure from outside and this would end in an explosion.

With this many people packed so tight, one of atom bomb proportions.

... ... ...

The news that the band reunion was cancelled in combination with a message from Winston that neither the tunnel's ventilation system nor its lights were still working at least helped Chance to decide what to do next. It didn't matter anymore who was doing this or why, and how they should be playing it with the authorities - now they needed to focus on saving Winston. And thousands of other people, too. Everything else was secondary.

"No matter what you do Ames, take your shirt off if you have to, but convince those guards to reopen their gates! We need to reduce pressure from the tunnel!" The last thing that Chance heard before he dashed down the HQ's stairs was the chief of operation giving similar instructions to his officers. Good. Thanks to the position of the building and the density of the crowd the officers would only be able to reach the guards on the north side, but if Ames managed to get only one additional exit on the east side reopened they'd create two streams of people leading away from the main entrance. It would make a world of a difference.

But only if nobody inside the tunnel panicked first.

"Winston? Winston?", Chance tried desperately, but Winston's earpiece had gone dead seconds after he had told them about the lights and the ventilation system. They had been lucky he had had a signal within these thick walls at all.

"We need to get fresh air into the tunnel", Guerrero told Chance. "With that many people crammed together carbon dioxide accumulates fast."

"Already in front of the turbine room. Don't think I'll have a signal inside. Door and walls look too well insulated." Chance quickly picked the lock. Thank God it was an old-fashioned one.

Creaking slightly, the door swung open to reveal two giant air handling units. Chance crossed the threshold. A slight buzz in his ear told him that he had lost the connection to the others. Just like Winston, he now was on his own.

The units weren't hard to spot, but which one was connected with the tunnel?

When they had looked at plans of the premises, Guerrero had said something about newly built-in ventilation of the tunnel... So then it had to be the one with the fresh paint, of course!

Chance looked around. Usually in a room like this, they kept a toolbox somewhere... They had to. Except for his lock picking equipment and a knife he wasn't carrying anything useful with him.

If they had no toolbox stashed somewhere his presence here was totally useless.

And Winston was running out of air.

... ... ...

Inside the tunnel, Winston came to the same conclusion. He needed to do something now, or this would end in disaster.

"Everybody calm down!", he yelled. Thanks to his size and his booming cop voice the people in his proximity actually turned their heads as far as they could and listened.

"Help is on the way! They're working on this problem right now!"

He still had the attention of those directly around him. But..

_My voice just doesn't reach far enough_, Winston thought. _With this giant crowd it's a drop in the ocean. If I had a bullhorn... _

But just like Chance in the turbine room had no proper tools, Winston had no technical means to turn the volume of his voice up.

But...

"You need to help me", he directly addressed three men and a woman right in front of him. "Come on, yell with me _KEEP CALM – HELP COMES. _

And they did.

Winston turned around, as far as he could, and asked more people to start shouting along with them.

It worked. The people kept standing still. But for how long? If the ventilation didn't come on soon...

... ... ...

It surely was ridiculous to sulk in a situation like this, but Ilsa did feel a bit left out. Chance hadn't even bothered telling her what to do. Ames was trying to talk to the guards, Chance was working on the ventilation, Guerrero was busy trying to override whatever program had allowed the attacker to gain control of all those vital functions... only she was sitting idly in the VIP box.

Well, she knew why Chance hadn't assigned her with anything. Judging from what she could see outside the windows, the entrance to the building with the VIP boxes was blocked by people, she had no chance of getting out. There was effectively nothing she could do.

With a cold shiver running down her spine she watched the dense crowd in front of the tunnel entrance. Guards were helplessly trying to restore order, but they were just too few. Hopefully nobody would have the bright idea to fire off a couple of a couple of warning shots. A human stampede would be the inevitable result.

And Ilsa would have a front row seat to that. From the VIP Box she had a perfect view of the horror scenario outside.

Hang on a second...

... ... ...

Chance cursed. No toolbox! Not a single screwdriver! Here he was standing right next to the heart of the problem and couldn't do ANYTHING.

Guerrero cursed. Whoever had hacked himself into the different electronic systems of the premises had done a very good job of building firewalls. He had bounced into three different ones in the last five minutes and the fourth had just popped up – it looked like it was connected with some sort of virus that started attacking his own computer now.

_Bastard, you're going to pay for this. _

Ames cursed. She had managed to reach one of the guards at a gate that was originally meant as an entrance. He understood what she was saying, but he had lost contact to HQ twenty minutes ago, none of his colleagues was present to give a second opinion and he just didn't feel "comfortable" with reopening the entrance just because a civilian told him so.

"What if everyone tries to get out through here? The people will get smushed!" He did have a point since Ames couldn't say for sure if other gates were reopened, too, but on the other hand, the pressure on the tunnel was growing and growing...

... ... ...

If the view from the VIP Box was perfect, it had to be fantastic from the roof of the building where they had accommodated the boxes... Ilsa didn't dare share her idea with Guerrero. She could hear him cursing over the ear piece, some sort of virus was causing giant problems... Chance was unreachable, so was Winston. Ames was still caught up in discussion with that guard...

Ilsa decided she needed to check the roof out on her own. It was highly unlikely. The attacker probably sat at home and watched everything through one of the security cams. That they weren't working for HQ didn't meant they weren't working for him.

But of course on the roof he'd be much closer to the action, could really indulge in the havoc he was wreaking...

Ilsa took a firefighter's axe from one of the walls and ascended the small maintenance stairwell that would directly lead her to the flat top of the building.

... ... ...

The yelling was helping, but Winston knew like everything that's done continuously, it's effect would eventually die down. He needed to figure out something else... and fast. The air was starting to feel perceptibly stale.

Maybe he should... It was an absurd idea. A police psychologist had told them a story during one of those seminars they make you sit through... Back then Winston had deemed the idea ridiculous. And given his current situation it was also dangerous, there was not much air left, should he waste it by...

But in desperate times... if he did nothing... a few more minutes of air wouldn't help anyone if a panic broke out...

Winston took a deep breath, held it for a second and then began:

_I'm dreaming of a White Christmas..._

At first no one sang along. It was really, really hard continuing, not only because breathing was hard, but because Winston felt like a complete idiot.

But as long as people are occupied, as long as they can focus on something, they are less likely to bolt...

Everybody knows the text of Christmas songs, no matter the cultural background or societal status...

Slow Christmas songs have a calming effect, the psychologist had actually mentioned some sort of research project on that matter...

_...just like the ones I used to know..._

Oh thank God, he wasn't singing alone anymore.

... ... ...

In the semi-darkness of the staircase, Ilsa stepped into something wet and sticky. She retrieved her mobile from the pocket of her blazer and used it as a flashlight.

A dark spot on the floor. Too viscous for water.

Good lord, it was blood.

A soft groan made Ilsa direct the beam to a dark corner. Tied up and gagged, apparently hurt seriously, too, there was a man lying curled up into a tight ball. Ilsa's makeshift flashlight danced over his nametag.

"Hello Mr. Walding", Ilsa whispered. "We've been trying to find you all day."

Oh how she wished she could contact Guerrero now, but what if the attacker, and by now she was sure he was on the roof, heard her?

For Walding's sake, for Winston's sake, for everyone in the arena's sake it was a risk she just couldn't take. She was on her own now.

Without even so much as a first aid box Ilsa knew she couldn't help Walding. Except with one thing - stopping the perfidious beast that had brought all of this upon them.

There was only one entrance to the roof - a small door right in the middle of it. If the attacker had positioned himself somewhere in the proximity, she had no chance in hell to sneak up on him. But what else was she supposed to do?

She weighed the axe in her hand. A potent weapon. In Guerrero's or Chance's hands. In hers?

Big question mark.

Cautiously she approached the door. Her own heartbeat was so loud, someone could have stomped up the steps behind her, she wouldn't have noticed.

_Breathe, boss, breathe... don't let your own adrenaline level get you killed._ An instruction of Guerrero's several years ago... she couldn't remember the exact context, but she did remember how much it had helped her back then. With newly found determination, she opened the door.

At first the roof seemed empty. Then she spotted him, as close to the roof's ledge as possible without being seen from the ground.

As close to the screams and panic of the crowd as possible.

Bloody hell, he had set up a regular little command center around him, with several notebooks left and right. And apparently he wasn't expecting anyone to come up from behind.

Now, had he stood right in front of the door and had he attacked her, Ilsa wouldn't have hesitated for a second to use the axe against him. But this here was a different story. Sure, sneaking up on him and splitting his skull in half would definitely end this ordeal in the quickest way possible. But this was a human being!

On the other hand, any less vehement approach involved the risk of him overpowering Ilsa. Her only real advantage was surprise.

But this was a human being...

Knowing that Guerrero would somehow make her pay for this later - if there was a "later" for her - she turned the axe around so that she'd now hit the attacker with the handle, not the blade.

As she slowly walked towards him, slightly crouched so that she would throw as little shadow as possible, it dawned on her that she should have taken off her high heels at some point. Too late now.

_Try to make your first blow your last blow. Strike with all the force you can muster. Straight blows have the most impact while anything that requires you to reach back far slows you down. _Instructions from Chance, probably in the aftermath of the opera ordeal. Well, at least this time a pipe from the ceiling wouldn't stop her half-way through...

The attacker, a rather young man, from what she could tell, still hadn't noticed her. He was too caught up in typing, probably countering one of Guerrero's maneuvers. She decided to aim for the back of his neck.

... ... ...

"Guerrero?"

"Ilsa, this is not the best moment to..."

"If I had access to the attacker's main computer, what would I need to look for to get things going again?"

For a few seconds there was silence from the other end. Complete and utterly stunned silence.


	70. Chapter 70

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"You're nothing but a klutz! An uncouth, stupid klutz!"

Ash silently wondered how someone who frequently used Japanese terms to substitute for English ones and in general deemed detailed knowledge of the English language as "unnecessary" came to know a phrase like "uncouth klutz".

Outwardly, however, he remained silent. When Miss Matsumoto was on a rant there was no stopping her. At least THAT he had learned in the past few months.

If nothing else, apparently.

"I _am_ in rhythm with the music now", he cautiously dared to point out.

"The very least one can expect!", she thundered.

"Seriously, grab my butt and lift me up", Christina snapped at him, impatient as always.

Ash took a deep breath and tried again.

"Try" remained the operative word.

"While you lift her up she must spread her arms like… like…" Mrs. Matsumoto was getting lost in a sea of English vocabulary again "…_tsubasa_… wings! I want her arms spread like wings, but you're holding her so unsteadily, so shaky, she resembles people drowning!"

She was right. Ash could see it in the large mirrors of the gym where they were practicing lifts. He did look like a klutz.

What was even worse, he was making Christina look like a klutz.

And they hadn't even made it onto the ice yet.

How the hell had Andrew managed this shit? Geeky, nerdy, no-date-at-Autumn Ball _Andrew_?

As he exited the gym that evening, Ash wondered if that was it. If he would have to call it quits.

Without the lifts, their performance would be completely worthless.

After all the yelling, humiliation and GOD DAMN HARD work.

He kicked a garbage can on the sidewalk so hard, he left a dent in the metal.

His Dad was home again from Texas. What was he supposed to tell him when he asked him how his figure skating training was going?

… … …

In the light of the fact that Ilsa had saved his life, Sean Walding was more than willing to give them all the info they needed on the paramilitary group that was after their client. It also helped that he had witnessed firsthand how effectively the team worked together. He trusted them when they told him they'd make sure that group would never threaten him again.

His confidence wasn't betrayed.

Their original client, predictably, complained that it had taken them so long to sort out the matter.

Equally predictably when he got home he found himself in the focus of a tax investigation. Someone had given the IRS an anonymous tip.

And also generously provided them with some very concrete hints as to where he had hidden his illicit earnings.

"I only fulfilled my duty as an upright citizen", Guerrero told Ilsa, shrugging his shoulders with a look on his face that even a blind man wouldn't have let pass as innocent.

… … …

_One should think "mass murderers" and "serial killers" are one and the same, but nothing could be further from the truth. Mass murderers usually harbor the dream of going down in a "blaze of glory", they either expect getting killed by the police or choose to commit suicide before apprehension._

_Serial killers, on the other hand, try to outsmart the police and aim at keeping on killing as long as possible, sometimes for years – take the San Franciscan Zodiac killer for example. Despite all efforts, police never managed to find him. He's maybe still out there! _

_Mass murderers often act spontaneously or with very little preparation. The school shootings of Columbine present an exception from the rule here. Killing sprees mostly resemble an "explosion of personality" – years and years of perceived humiliation, bottled-up anger or simply delusion break out in one giant thunderstorm of wrath. _

_In contrast to that serial killers most often lead a "Jekyll & Hyde"-existence: Family fathers, friendly neighbors, caring nurses by day, they turn into ruthless murderers by night, practicing killing as a sport, to experience feelings of power, sexual arousal or control. _

_Revenge plays a part in both types of killers, but while mass murders usually target random victims, serial killer have a very distinct predator-prey system, based on negative experiences with ethnic groups, occupations, environments. _

_Timothy Heathen, the man who almost turned Solemnstone Festival into a deathtrap for hundreds, however, is hard to categorize. He shows elements of both categories, on the one hand operating very methodically and aiming to evade the police, on the other hand looking to kill as many people as possible on one occasion, no matter what color, gender or social background._

Ilsa winced as the image of Heathen appeared on the TV screen. His face was pixelated and he was on a stretcher. They must have taped this pretty much directly after the electronic infrastructure of the premises had started working again and police and rescue squads had finally gotten the situation under control.

By now Ilsa knew that Heathen would remain permanently paralyzed from the waist down. The blow with the axe handle to his neck had caused serious damage to his spine.

Guerrero lightly slapped her on the thigh. "Don't", he said and Ilsa tried to push the feeling of guilt away that had come washing over her.

He was right. 

""I still can't believe we stumbled upon this by accident", Ames remarked, shaking her head at the pictures on the TV screen. "I mean, how big of a coincidence is that? Us ending up right in the middle of the largest mass murder attempt in US history?"

_Apparently Heathen, a former research assistant at Texas Tech felt he didn't deserve the rather mediocre grading he received for his thesis about crowd dynamics. It seems like he was planning to demonstrate the validity of his argumentation in a literally true-to-life way. _

"Life is full of coincidences", Winston sighed. He had been calmer in the past few days after their return from Texas, but not in a good way. His former anger had turned into resignation. Sadness. Hopelessness.

As pictures from the public ceremony where the mayor had awarded him the city's medal of honor for his heroic intervention under direst circumstances, he got off the sofa and walked away.

Someone else, however, was watching the ceremony very intensely.

"He saved your life with a Christmas song?", the gaunt man asked his daughter, barely twenty years old, who had foolishly decided to take part in that twitter nonsense.

"Without him I'd probably be dead right now", she whispered, still shaken from the events at Solemnstone although already several days had passed.

"Winston…" , her father said thoughtfully. "As in Michele Winston…"

His daughter looked at him, expecting him to explain his words, but he lapsed into silence.

This was a dangerous matter. Innokentij didn't take kindly to snitches.

But it wouldn't really be snitching, would it?

It would more be like paying back a debt.

To a man who had saved his daughter.

He needed to think about this.


	71. tropical island

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**~ tropical island ~ **_

Ash hadn't seen Miss Matsumoto's car in the parking lot. Maybe she was stuck in traffic and they'd start a little later? He tried not to let his hopes go up too much. At the moment every minute less he had to spend on the ice with these stupid blades on and Christina snarling at him was a gift from above.

He was a little late himself, talk about passive-aggressiveness. Much to his surprise, though, there was no Christina yelling at him from the other side of the rink on the top of her voice for not taking things seriously and being a lazy dumbass.

Actually the rink was completely empty. Had some sort of plague broken out and he hadn't noticed? Usually there were at least a dozen people training around this time of day. This was somewhat eerie.

"Hey dude."

Ash jumped. He hadn't heard Guerrero approach and he had been really alert.

Guerrero grinned, knowing what the boy was thinking.

_Another couple of years, dude, and then maybe. _

"No training with Christina today."

Ash hadn't heard his father coming either. At least he didn't jump this time, but judging from his Dad's grin he knew, just like Guerrero, that his son hadn't perceived his presence till he spoke up.

Their habit of sneaking up on him was seriously unnerving. And what the hell were the two doing here anyway?

"So can I go home again?"

Predictably, both men laughed. Ah well, that would have been too easy. But it had been worth a try.

"Hey, Ash."

Isu, in training clothes. What the hell?

"Heard you've got trouble with the lifts." He gave his friend a lopsided smile, half hidden underneath his longish black hair.

"Are you kidding me?"

"Grab my butt and lift me up, bro."

Chance was a worthless skater, but thanks to his jiu jitsu training he knew a lot about balance. Just as Guerrero, who had a black belt in karate.

"Don't ever let your arms move past your ears. And don't be afraid of breaking up a lift if you don't feel comfortable with it. She's giving you her body, it's your responsibility to take care of it", Chance instructed his son.

Under different circumstances, that last sentence would have been funny in a guy thing kind of way, but this time they were all too concentrated.

"That also means, dude, that you're in charge. No matter how ambitious she is, you're the only one who knows whether you'll be able to do that lift or not. You decide."

Together with Chance and Guerrero, Ash lifted Isu up.

So far, so good. He felt a lot more comfortable with his buddy, encouraging him to turn him here and there, than with Christina, snarling at him for every little mistake. But they were still standing on a mat, not on the ice.

"Now come on, I bet with a bit of momentum this goes much better." Isu walked off the mat and proceeded to put skates on. So did Guerrero. Chance apparently figured he wouldn't be much of a help and remained on solid ground.

"You realize I could kill you with a tiny mistake?", Ash quietly asked his friend as they were skating face-to-face.

"I trust you. Your skills and your judgment."

Ash swallowed drily, nodded, wrapped his fingers around Isamu's waist and pulled him upwards.

Suddenly it was easy.

"Whooohooo! This is greaaaaat!" Isamu yelled, actually spreading his arms in the rush of adrenaline, speed and sheer surprise at this new experience.

Spreading his arms like wings.

_Tsubasa. _

That night, Ash went to bed happy and confident for the first time in months. His body was abuzz from the adrenaline and the many lifts, but in a good way. It finally looked as if he could really pull this off! He would not let Christina scare him into doubting himself again.

Actually smiling, he drifted off to sleep.

His mind, however, didn't rest. As the wolf's hour between three and four o'clock in the morning approached, he started tossing and turning in his bed, falling deeper and deeper into the abyss of a nightmare.

_He was skating. Not in the arena, somewhere outside, on a lake. Around him hundreds of people were crowding the ice, families, children, teenagers arm in arm… even some dogs were clumsily joining the fun. _

_He was skating leisurely, circumventing all obstacles with practiced ease, but there was no randomness to the direction he was going. _

_He had a purpose. _

_Or, more accurately, a target. _

_The man was in his early forties, and despite the warnings of his bodyguards, he was enjoying the bright winter day on the solidly frozen lake in the middle of his hometown. "Just like I've done every year since I was a boy. I'm not going to let some stupid death threats spoil this for me!" _

_His bodyguards were watchful. Ash had quietly tested their level of awareness on several occasions, and they were top of the league. _

_But he was, too. _

_Like a vulture, he circled the small group, keeping his distance, waiting for an opportunity to present itself. _

_There! A whole group of teenagers, fooling around. None of them seemed very experienced on blades, they were skating slowly and uncoordinatedly. _

_And directly towards his target, who was busy balancing his youngest son on his shoulders. _

Come on, put the kid down, he doesn't need to feel his father suddenly losing all strength and crashing downwards with no means to break the fall.

_As if he had heard him, the man obeyed. _

_Suddenly fast as an arrow, Ash darted forwards, in passing pushing one of the teenagers so that the whole group came down in a chain reaction like dominoes. _

_The bodyguards' attention was diverted for a split second. _

_It was all Ash needed. Amongst all the ruckus, the shot from the silenced gun was totally drowned._

_He didn't stick around to check if he had succeeded. He knew he'd read it in the newspaper the next day. _

_Before anyone on the ice had even fully realized what had just happened, Ash was already back at his car. _

_In the reflection of the window he could see his face for the first time. _

_He was older, but not much. _

Ash jerked awake, bathed in sweat. Still caught up in the last remnants of the dream, he stumbled out of bed and dashed into the bathroom, throwing up violently.

What the hell…?

"Hey, are you okay?" His father, fully clothed, looking at him with a concerned frown on his face.

Ash hesitated. Should he tell him?

No. It was just a stupid dream. What was he, a baby? Running to Daddy because there was a monster in the closet?

"Lifting is exhausting", he mumbled, turning the faucet on to wash his face. "Haven't eaten properly, too. Why are you up and about?"

"Winston called. He received a message about Michele. He's coming over. Guerrero and Ilsa, too."

Ash nodded and grabbed a towel to dry his skin. The elevator dinged, announcing the arrival of the others.

News about Michele…

He was glad he hadn't told his father about the dream. He definitely needed to focus on more important things now.


	72. Chapter 72

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Decades ago, back when Michele had decided she wanted to be a nurse, she had also made a "to do"-list. It contained all the things she wanted to do in her professional life and things she definitely didn't want to do.

Now, it was not a "next step on the career ladder"-list – _in two years I want to be married to the resident surgeon, in five years I want to be head nurse_…

Michele called it "List of Rules" and it still existed, tucked away in some drawer, underneath a couple of old diaries and letters she had received back when people actually wrote letters.

Rule number one was "Always listen to the patients." Rule number two was "Hopeless cases deserve attention, too. " Just because someone was beyond rescue and definitely going to die didn't meant he deserved to be ignored cause it wouldn't matter anyway.

All in all she had drafted eighteen rules. Over the years not all had turned out to be practicable, some just took away too much energy from her, drained her emotionally, invaded her private life too far…

But rule number one had always remained on top of the list.

Which was exactly why she was in this mess right now.

She had lost track of time soon after her second incarceration. This place was a lot better insulated than the last cell. No noises helping her to figure out where she was and if it was day or night. Her only orientation were the regular meals, but they gave her no clue about the time – sometimes she got scrambled eggs and toast three times in a row, then half a dozen meals that all pointed at lunchtime… Michele had the feeling that Russian was enjoying her disorientation and loved enhancing it with little psychological tricks.

Gosh, did she hate that guy. He had never laid as much as a finger on her, but the way he looked at her… like a farmer would look at a porker, calculating how much money he'd get once it was time for the trip to the slaughter house.

And all of that because she had adhered to rule number one…

"Oh Kitty", she thought, curling up into a tight ball on her mattress, imagining she was lying in Hank's arms, "I wish you had just shut up…"

… … …

"Remember Jennings?", Winston asked the others, showing them the message he had received. "The larger criminal conglomerate his organization was only a part of? With the Basil on top and someone trying to take him down, but nobody knew who?"

His friends all nodded in unison. The name Basil had stuck, especially after the Jennings lead had turned out to be a dead end. Ambushing Jennings' stash house under great risk and then finding Michele's cell empty, that had been quite a blow, to all of them…

"Apparently whoever tried to take the Basil down had an accomplice. Young hooker named Kitty Briano. She was badly hurt shortly after the assassination attempt on the Basil, in an apparently unrelated car accident", Winston continued.

"Let me guess, she was admitted to Michele's ward?" Chance was beginning to see a picture.

"Where she died during her first night…", Winston nodded. "Looks like she made some sort of confession first, though… Michele has a couple of rules she strictly adheres to. Number one is _Always listen to the patients._ I can imagine her sitting at her bed, holding her hand…" His voice trailed off. Ilsa lightly put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it.

"If the girl confessed, she put Michele into a very dangerous position…" Chance used his fingers to make the sheer number of people who were probably after the knowledge Michele possessed visible to the others. "The person behind the attack on the Basil, the Basil himself, his loyal followers and the others who are contending for the throne but agreed upon waiting till the boss bit the dust without assistance…"

"Back when you and Baptiste were caught in that jungle with Ash's grandf…"

A withering look from Chance stopped Ames in mid-sentence.

"With Joubert", she quickly corrected herself. "That woman, Anna…"

"Araña", Chance grumbled, slightly irritated without really knowing why. Absentmindedly he tugged at the wristband of his watch.

"Anyway, she wanted to auction you off, right? To the highest bidder who then could do with you whatever he pleased, kill you, torture you…"

"What's your point, Ames?" Winston was grumbling now, too, and not slightly.

"Did I get that right, according to the message that Innokentij guy wants to auction off Michele to the highest bidder because she knows something nobody else does?"

"Innokentij Krektovic." Guerrero showed them a blurred picture on the conference room's monitor. "He took over горизонт from Bogdan…" With a swish of his hand, he revealed a rough sketch of Innokentij's multiple layered organization on the screen.

For a moment they were all silent.

Finally Chance turned to Winston. "We're going to get her back, no matter what", he said quietly.

… … …

Innokentij didn't like getting disturbed while doing paperwork. Granted, if he was honest with himself, it was the paperwork he didn't like, an annoyance he took out on everyone unfortunate enough to stumble into his office at the wrong time.

On this occasion, however, he was willing to put mercy before justice.

Krystof, one of his closest employees – a little too close, actually, he might have to shoot him soon to make sure he wouldn't try to take his place one day, it's what Innokentij would do – was smiling at him like the proverbial cat after swallowing the proverbial canary.

Oh, he was proud of himself.

And rightfully so.

"Where did you get this?" Truly fascinated, Innokentij looked over the contents of the envelope spread out on his desk once more. His eyes were gleaming with delight.

"The woman foolishly put it into a safe deposit box. At a _bank_. And thought it was _safe_."

They both shared a laugh.

Foolish indeed.

Then Innokentij reread the shorter letter again.

_Dear Chance…_

Oh, this was gold.


	73. Chapter 73

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"NO! NO! You're not going to run off again!" Winston was yelling so loudly, Carmine had fled into Ilsa's office and was hiding underneath her desk. People outside on the street could probably hear him.

"We finally got a valid lead on Michele, you're not going anywhere!"

Three blocks away.

"Winston, this guy needs our help", Chance stated slowly and firmly. "He's stuck in a Venezuelan prison and we need to get him out."

Late night or unholy early morning telephone calls were never a good sign.

They usually meant hectically made flight arrangements, instructions on the way, the clock ticking against them and hitting the ground running.

The call half an hour ago, mostly consisting of static and a very, very desperate Aaron Cooper pleading for help definitely proved that rule.

Only that they hadn't made it into any flying or otherwise moving vehicle yet.

"There's _always_ someone needing our help!" The way Winston had puffed himself up in the center of the lobby didn't leave much room for interpretation: Chance wouldn't get past him without a fight.

"We're talking about _Aaron Cooper_ here. Without his brother I would have never made it out of Prishtina alive. Danny came back for me, Winston."

"We've already helped him!" Winston was not changing his position, neither physically nor figuratively. "Saved his ass from that Russian spy!"

"I didn't know we've got a one lifesaving per person limit – you checked that with Ilsa?"

Ilsa, who was standing by and witnessing the showdown between the two friends just as helplessly as Guerrero and Ames, seriously doubted that provoking Winston with irony was a good idea in the given situation.

"Don't you dare go smartass on me!", Winston exploded, predictably.

"Planning the ambush on that Krektovic guy will take at least five more days. We can't just waltz in there and grab Michele. We need to collect information first, and that's a job best left to Guerrero."

Chance took a deep breath and continued very calmly.

"Getting Aaron out of that prison will take three days tops. I already have a plan."

"With you nothing ever goes according to plan!" Winston actually stomped his foot.

"Now you're being mean!"

"Chance, you got POISONED during the Russian embassy shit!"

Fair point.

"I promised Aaron if he ever needed help…"

"If it wasn't Aaron it would be someone else! Last time, when YOU were supposed to meet the contact at the pier you ran off to save Baptiste, who, mind you, killed the woman you loved!"

Ames visibly gave a start. Wide-eyed, she stared first at Winston, then at Chance. She looked like someone had just slapped her in the face. Chance didn't notice. Ilsa did.

"I'm sorry things went a bit off the rails at the pier", Chance tried to calm the waves once more, adding a couple of extra wrinkles to his best "I truly regret this"-expression. "But Aaron's stuck in that prison and…"

"HOW COME YOU'RE THERE FOR EVERYONE ELSE BUT NEVER FOR ME? DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT I GAVE UP FOR YOU ASSASSIN SCUMBAG?"

Whoa.

Now Chance looked as if someone had slapped him in the face.

"Dude…", Guerrero growled.

Ilsa felt an icy shudder running down her spine. She needed to interfere. Fast.

"Chance _will_ be going to Venezuela. He owes it Mr. Cooper's deceased brother. Gathering information on Mr. Krektovic will indeed take time, and Chance won't be of much help with that." Her voice was strict, loud and maybe a little too high pitched. Just like she had spoken back when she had first taken up "absentee" ownership. Nowadays, after finding out through first hand experience how Chance dealt with orders - not well at all, that is - she avoided that tone, but right now the situation was taking its toll on her just like on everyone else. "Do you agree with Chance's assessment of needing at least five days to get everything ready?", she addressed Guerrero.

"Yes boss, I do." Not a hint of irony in Guerrero's reply.

Winston turned towards Ilsa, shoulders squared, lungs pumped up, the angriest scowl on his face.

"Any objections, Mr. Winston?" _Last time I checked, I was the one signing the paychecks_, said the look on her face.

Winston opened his mouth.

Closed it again.

Tried once more.

Shut up.

A) Ilsa indeed was his boss. B) Without her support he wouldn't get Michele back. From what they knew so far about Innokentij Krektovic's hideout it was a fortress, far better secured then Bogdan's. This time they might very well need the tank she had offered to buy for them three years ago.

A small smile, barely perceptible, tugged at the corner's of Guerrero's mouth.

Chance was still staring at Winston, motionless, frozen to the spot.

Ilsa had seen that expression on his face before. Back when he had implied that Marshall had cheated on her. When she had hurled at him that he had never loved anyone.

She still felt ashamed about that incident. But maybe she could now finally make up for it.

"And Ames will be going with you", she ruled.

Ames awoke from the state of shock she had been caught in ever since Winston's mentioning of a woman Chance had loved.

Eyes wide open, she stared at Ilsa.

Blinked.

She and Chance alone on a job that didn't present too much of a problem... in a beautiful, tropic country, with lots of sunshine… He'd surely get hurt, would need someone to patch up his injuries… They'd have time to talk… Sort things out…

"My Spanish is a lot better than yours", she stated just as matter-of-factly as Guerrero had supported Ilsa's decision only moments ago.

Sometimes it was really good to have a boss.

"Then that's settled. Unfortunately the jet is in repair right now, but I'm sure I can find you two a decent flight connection."

Ilsa nodded at all of them, just like she would have at the end of a foundation board meeting.

"Come on, we've got to wake some people up. For a nice little talk about the Russian dude", Guerrero told Winston.

"I'm not going to help you torture somebody!", Winston thundered.

Although for Michele, of course he would have.

"You haven't showered yet, dude, or brushed your teeth. You presence alone is torture enough."

"Wiseass!"

Trust Guerrero to pull Winston back to his usual ways.

Chance, however, was still very silent. Wordlessly, he walked upstairs to grab his go-bag.


	74. Chapter 74

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

"This might be a stupid question, but if he was framed, wouldn't it be better to prove his innocence instead of just breaking him out of prison and thus making him a fugitive?", Ames asked, tugging at her turquoise ladies' suit. The skirt just didn't fit right.

"Caracas is the deadliest capital in the world, with roughly one murder every hour. Armed assaults and robberies are a part of normal, everyday life. No neighborhood is safe. Poorly-paid and corrupt law enforcers, inefficient politicized judiciary, a violent and overcrowded prison system, overworked prosecutors and about 15 million illegal weapons in the wrong hands… in that kind of country you can be a Vatican-approved saint and they still lock you away if the right people want you behind bars. No chance to play that nicely, Ames."

Chance reached out, took hold of the hem of her skirt and pulled lightly, once. Suddenly it fit perfectly.

"But there's an extradition treaty between Venezuela and the States. He'll become a fugitive here, too. He gets stopped for speeding and they put him in the next plane back to Caracas. Murder is listed as one of the crimes that warrant an extradition."

Chance looked at her, then let his mouth fall open in mock surprise. She lightly slapped him.

"What? You said I was going to pose as a prosecutor, so I did some research on Venezuelan law!"

Once again Chance couldn't help but think how much she had grown in the past few years. In the beginning she had been street-smart and good at manipulating people. By now that manipulative side of her had almost completely disappeared. She only used it during jobs, when dealing with thugs. At home, he couldn't have trusted her more.

Chance almost gave a start when he realized that he had just called the warehouse his _and_ Ames' home. Good Lord, what had become of the "We're just friends"-resolution? Apparently having no sex with her wasn't enough to keep her out of his heart. His stomach tightening at the possible consequences of that, he quickly concentrated on the matter at hand.

"Aaron apparently learned something from the Russian embassy ordeal. He entered the county with a fake ID. Thanks to Venezuela's inept judicial system so far nobody found out. You'll present transfer papers for him and one, two, three we'll be on our way back to San Francisco."

Now Ames was giving him a long, mocking look.

"What?"

"Chance, your plans _never _work out the way they're supposed to."

They both laughed.

… … …

A couple of hours later, when Ames was stopped right outside the prison by half a dozen armed guards with _very real_ loaded guns and a _real _prosecutor who knew Aaron's _real_ name, she felt a lot less amused.

"Let's get back inside", the prosecutor said in false politeness.

Aaron looked at Ames, waiting for some sort of indication what to do next. He was expecting guidance.

Yeah, and she would gladly give it.

If she only knew how.

_Goddamn it, Chance! One, two, three? What are we going to do now? If they lead us back into that prison we're trapped! Overcrowded or not, you'll need a tank to get in there. What THE HELL are we going to do now?_

This situation wasn't really his fault. But looking at machine gun muzzles can make you unreasonably angry at the first person that's available. And since Aaron was staring at her with a deer-caught-in-headlights expression… As Winston had demonstrated quite excessively lately, blaming Chance was easy.

She had lost radio contact to him when she had walked into that prison to present the transfer papers – too much radio traffic from the prison guards' old-fashioned walkie-talkies.

Did Chance know what was going on? Was he already taking steps to bail them out? She had little means to guess what he would do, but one thing she was quite sure of, whatever he was planning – _if _he was planning something – it required them to stay out of that building.

So, hoping she was acting more or less in accordance with whatever crazy plan he was – hopefully – concocting she took a step forward, pretended to be tripping over something, dragged Aaron down with her, cried over her heel coming off in Spanish and all in all created a turmoil that hopefully would provide Chance with the opportunity to…

The hair raising sound of screeching tires, coming at least from three sides, told her that yes, Chance was seizing the opportunity.

Or was he?

Dozens of people jumped out of the six cars that had stopped right in front of the prison – all young men between sixteen and twenty-five, at the most. Judging from their clothing, they belonged to different street gangs.

Much to Ames', the prosecutor's, the guards' and of course Aaron's shock, the gang members started shooting at each other.

Most guards and the prosecutor were way too stunned and had their attention turned to the sudden battle on the street to waste any thought on their newly taken prisoners. Inside the prison someone had set the alarm off, guards were streaming out the entrance, heavily armed.

Only one guard of the prosecutor's lot apparently wasn't willing to allow the turmoil to make him neglect his duty. He pointed his machine gun straight at the fallen Aaron and Ames, motioned them to get up and directed them towards the entrance.

The prosecutor saw him taking care of the fake prosecutor and the wannabe jailbreaker and nodded in appreciation. He liked men who were proactive and took their job seriously. Maybe he could promote this one.

With a wave of his gun, the guard made the two walk towards the prison door. Once they stepped over the threshold, everything would be lost.

Then Ames caught a glimpse of the face half-hidden underneath the butterscotch colored uniform cap and saw bright blue eyes gleaming at her.

Pretty much at that very moment the prosecutor noticed that his future officer of the month was wearing shoes that were way too good for an underpaid prison guard.

"ALTO!", he yelled.

"RUN!" Chance yelled, creating covering fire for Ames and Aaron.

He had parked their getaway car in a side street and left it in the custody of a couple of street kids. Tossing money at them he jumped behind the steering wheel. "Get me Ilsa on the phone!"

Ames hectically started punching numbers into his cell.

"You think it's wise, making a telephone call and driving?", Aaron timidly asked from the backseat.

Chance took a sharp left turn, accelerated once more and turned right.

"Yeah, might get a ticket for that", Chance replied, taking a sharp left turn. Then he accelerated once more and shot straight forward.

"Maybe we should all fasten our seatbelts, there are steep fines on that, too!" He raced through a narrow opening between a donkey cart and a at least sixty-year-old truck laden with live chicken, barely missing a huge palm tree on the street corner.

"Chance, is that you?", Ilsa asked. Ames had put her on speaker.

"Tell me the jet's ready and on the way. We need to get out asap and I don't think we can stick around for some last-minute special offer!"

Ilsa's answer came with a suspicious delay. Maybe it was the bad connection.

"I'm working on it…"

"Well, you better get going, we'll need transportation in two hours tops!" Chance made a u-turn, brought the car to an abrupt halt and motioned them all to hurry from the vehicle into a narrow side street. An old buddy of his had a bar not far from here where they could maybe hide for a while.

If they paid him well enough.

… … …

Meanwhile in San Francisco, Ilsa was facing some serious challenges of her own: "Seriously, Rummy, you still owe me money from that poker game. Gambling debts are debts of honor, remember? Yes, I know she will ask questions if you withdraw such a huge amount of money at once… I'm also very well aware of the fact that she isn't supposed to know about that little game of ours. But I've got a very simple solution for that…"

Ilsa put forward her proposal.

Of course it was met with outright rejection.

Time to tighten the reins… "I'm sure you remember she and I are members of the same society for the preservation of antique roses, don't you? If I got my appointments right, there's this annual meeting next week. I'm really looking forward to a nice chat with her, over a cup of tea or two…"

Predictably her announcement wasn't exactly well-received.

"Veiled threat? _That_ sounded like a veiled threat to you? Rummy! I'd _never_ do that kind of thing… I just pointed out…"

Guerrero, who was listening in to the whole conversation, nodded appreciatively while hacking away at the layers of Innokentij's online network. So far he hadn't made it in terribly deep. This Russian dude was really good.

Grumbling on the other end of the line, then Ilsa broke into a triumphant smile.

"You know, Rummy, I'm sure those business friends of yours won't mind enjoying the luxurious side of South America a little longer. Thank you for turning your jet around and sending it to Caracas. Unfortunately I don't think I'll make it to the society meeting next week. Give her my regards, will you?"

Letting out a deep sigh of relief, Ilsa put down the phone.

… … …

"So what are we going to do now?" Ames was pacing up and down the room round and round Chance's former buddy on the floor who had attempted to strike a little extra bargain by ratting them out after all. Well, Chance had intercepted it just in time and now he was enjoying a very close view of the dirty tiles in his storage room.

"They know Aaron's real name. He'll become a fugitive after all…"

"I've got rather interesting information on the real use of US development aid down in the south of the country", Aaron cautiously explained. "I guess that's why they're after me. And if it's so important to them, it'll probably be important to our government, too?"

Chance nodded. "That'll do it. We've got a contact in the department of justice who might help…"

Aaron gave Chance's former buddy on the floor an ostentatious look. Chance understood.

"More precisely, Guerrero's got dirt on him."

In the light of the latest developments involving a certain bundle on the floor, not only Aaron felt reassured by that clarification. Ames nodded in appreciation, too.

"So where did you stash the information?", she asked Aaron.

It turned out he had hidden it at the airport.

Well done, Aaron… Now all they needed was to retrieve it an then get into whatever transportation Ilsa had arranged for them.

Shouldn't be too difficult, should it?

… … …

Predictably, the Venezuelan police was closing in on them – rapidly – when they had finally managed to get the flash drive with Aaron's story.

Time to create a diversion…

Ames however, was not happy at all with Chance's plan.

"No!", she yelled at him, over the noise of machine guns being fired. "You're not going to fly off with this deathtrap alone!"

Chance's idea was to make the officers believe they were all three fleeing with a small, twin-engined aircraft not unlike the one Guerrero and Winston had hijacked in the Andes, while in reality, only he was taking off with it, while the others would use the impressive jet Ilsa had sent.

"You are right, Ames - it IS a deathtrap!", Chance yelled back at her.

"I'd rather crash with you than live without you!"

Her voice, her face… suddenly Chance felt like being back at the Loch in Scotland. He just couldn't push her back. Not again.

"Get in!", he shouted.

And off they went.


	75. Chapter 75

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**A/N: I rewrote this about five million times because IT JUST DIDN'T SOUND RIGHT. Still not sure it does now… **_

"Plan is working!", Chance told Ames as they headed down the runway, split seconds before take-off.

"I'm not sure I like the sound of that…" Ames tried to play it cool – after practically pleading with him to be taken along she could hardly complain about any dangers, could she? – but secretly she checked if her seatbelt was really fastened. Somehow she had the feeling this was going to be a hell of a ride.

Chance pointed backwards and now Ames noticed it, too. An airplane just as small as their own was in close pursuit. It was camouflage, obviously of military origin.

"Don't tell me the Venezuelan police has access to airplanes! What was that with the poor funding?" Ames checked her seatbelt again, this time a lot less secretly.

"Aaron's information must be pretty explosive…"

Chance had hardly said it when the camouflage plane started shooting at them. Actually SHOOTING at them! No cannons or rockets, of course, but the machine guns on both sides of the aircraft looked totally sufficient to shatter them into pieces.

Oh hell, and they hadn't even made it off the ground yet. What in the world had she been thinking, begging to get on board of this plane? Ames decided to blame the romantic movie night she had had with her friends lately… all those highly dramatic climaxes, with thunderous orchestra music in the background.

Damn, Winston was right, TV really had a bad influence on people.

On the other hand, could she really sit comfortably in the jet while Chance…?

No. Flat no.

They were reaching the end of the tarmac now. Chance pulled the stick backwards, accelerated a little more…

Ames said a silent Hail Mary.

If they got hit during take-off…

Okay, granted, the idea of getting hit while being in the air wasn't exactly appealing either.

Luckily whoever was on board of the other plane was apparently busy with taking off unharmed, too, and they made it into the sky without a bullet hole in the tank or other vital parts of the engine.

The thick rain clouds that had been gathering above the city all day, in combination with the heat creating a horribly humid weather, were finally good for something – they'd help them disappear, at least for a few precious moments.

Or so Ames thought…

"I've never been into this girl scout kind of thing, and I really know zilch about this whole moss-grows-on-the-east-side-of-the-tree-bark thing, but are you heading _towards_ the city? _In plain sight?_

"We need to get them off Aaron's trail, Ames. And off Ilsa's, for that matter. If it comes to light that she provided a fugitive with a jet…" Chance checked the plane's controls. "This is better kept than I originally thought… This is a restored Messerschmitt Bf 109G-2 from World War II!"

He fell silent, as if contemplating something.

With shining eyes.

"You've got that look on your face, Chance…"

Ames couldn't quite lay a finger on it, but his expression reminded her of someone who had just gained a whole new perspective on something.

An _exciting _new perspective.

Sure enough he broke his contemplative silence a second later. "Ready for a lesson in history?", he asked with a boyish grin on his face.

Of course he didn't really wait for a reply.

Ames clutched the co-pilot's seat and she didn't give a damn whether he noticed or not.

Chance forced the small plane to climb as fast as it could, then suddenly applied full rudder and yawed it around. This put their aircraft facing down at the camouflage one and would have been a great position for a high speed diving attack – if they had been armed… but Chance had hijacked a civil aircraft…

"This maneuver is called an Immelmann!", he happily informed Ames.

"I'd call it INSANE MAN!"

Instead of an answer, Chance pulled back on the stick and brought the plane up into a brief climb. Then he suddenly eased the stick to the right… and the plane started to roll over! While continuing to pitch upward!

Whoever the other engine's pilot was, he knew how to handle his vehicle – he started rotating around them, spiraling along a flat line, just in bigger circles, firing at them whenever he was level with the horizon line.

"STOP ENJOYING THIS!" Ames yelled at Chance as the aircraft began to shake violently.

So much for her resolution to play it cool. Everybody has limits…

"We're doing fine, Ames! It's almost impossible to get hit while rotating..."

The angry hiss of some sort of wiring, suddenly disrupted by a bullet, made him stop in mid-sentence.

"Well, of course, there's always a tiny chance that…"

Ames turned around for a brief second to check what exactly had gotten hit. Then she noticed the plane was shifting again and she turned her attention back to Chance. "What are you up to now?"

"Well, we need to get rid of them somehow, don't we?"

A bridge appeared in the distance, and they were heading straight towards it.

"That's the Viaduct 1, part of the Caracas-La Guaira-Highway. Total length 1.013,6 ft, arch span 498,3 ft, height above water 230 ft, deck width 70 ft. Should be sufficient…"

"First a history lesson, now architecture? Are you channeling Winston or something? Just because I did a little bit of research to get prepared doesn't meant I'm suddenly into learning by doing! And how the hell do you know…?" Ames stopped herself. "Hang on, what do you mean by _sufficient_?"

His grin grew broader.

"Chance, NO. No, you're not… GAAAAAAAH!"

Engine roaring, wings quivering, Chance dove through one of the bridge's arches, almost touched water, brought the plane into a steep climb again.

"You said you'd crash with me!"

"That was a figure of speech!" Ames was clawing at her seatbelt so hard, they'd probably need a crowbar to pry them off ever again. And then she felt it…

Chance rolled the plane over once more and turned it around again, passing above the bridge now in a drawn out loop and heading in the direction where they had been coming from. The pilot of the other aircraft apparently couldn't mirror that maneuver, he kept on flying straight ahead.

She felt the adrenalin rush through her veins. The feeling she used to have after cracking a highly complicated safe, pulling off a dangerous gig or barely escaping Guerrero's wrath after messing something up again.

Good Lord, she hadn't had that feeling in a long time.

Now, their line of business provided them with lots of dangerous situations, but this here, this was different, this was… cool…crazy… Chance…

Chance risked a glance at her, noticed her eyes shining with sudden excitement, her breath quickening… she liked this… his smile grew, and this time not because of the adrenalin.

For a long while they were both silent, no sounds but the intense rattling and roaring of the engine. Slowly Ames' heart rate normalized. Rational thinking set in. The plane had roared from the very beginning, hadn't it? She guessed airplanes from the Second World War were that loud. At least they didn't sound much different in those old black and white movies she and Chance sometimes watched.

When it was his turn to choose the movie.

"The first part was a figure of speech, you know", Ames finally said. "The part about the crashing. The other one… I meant that…"

At this very moment something in the back of the plane first made a cracking, then a sharp hissing and then a crackling sound.

"So you'd be mad with me if we really crashed?", Chance asked.

Ames opened her mouth, but before she really had a chance to reply, he continued:

"I'm aiming for a small island the locals call Isla Mapache. If we make it there, let's call it a less than perfect landing, okay?"

"IF?"


	76. Chapter 76

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Crystal blue water, white beach, palm trees swaying in the wind... the only thing marring the picture postcard setting on the quaint little South American island was a WW II plane, nose half buried in the sand, waves slapping against its tail in a slow, lazy rhythm.

Once Ames had established that she was still alive, she felt better.

"You alright?"

Chance's voice. So he was alive, too. Good. She totally felt like killing him right now.

"Plane's still intact! Granted, we lost a wing… two wings… but what's the old saying? As long as there's no fire, it's not a plane crash!"

He came clambering over to her, the brief shadow on his face betraying his easygoing attitude, giving away that he was actually very worried about her.

Ames was torn between the urge to kick his ass and cautiously wipe the sand off his face to check for scratches. Then he helped her outside and WOW, what a pretty place. She should have brought her bikini.

On second thought…

"Is the island inhabited?"

Chance shook his head. "No, we're pretty much off the grid here." He looked at the deep blue ocean, smiled at her and climbed back into the damaged plane.

"Gotta try and contact HQ. Ilsa can send someone. Or maybe Guerrero knows a guy."

Ames looked at the deep blue ocean, the amazingly cloudless sky, the sparkling white beach… a soft breeze was cooling her skin while the warm sun gently caressed it… she hurried after Chance.

The plane's radio equipment was still working and Chance had no trouble getting through to San Francisco. Much to his surprise, Ilsa replied.

"Guerrero and Winston are busy planning ambush. Roger."

"Okay… we'll be needing some sort of transportation at the following coordinates… 11° 1′ N, 63° 55′ W…"

"Roger and Wilco."

"Ilsa! First off, who the hell taught you to speak like that? You've been reading the wikipedia entry on radio communication or what?"

Back at the warehouse, Ilsa quickly closed the website she had been studying since Guerrero had put her in charge of the radio equipment.

"Second, "Roger" simply means "received", as in "understood". "Wilco" means "received and will comply." If you say "Roger Wilco" it's a) incorrect and b) redundant." He wasn't exactly sure why he was snarling at her for this petty point. Maybe it was because seeing Ames bent over in the co-pilot's seat that had come loose during landing hadn't exactly been a pleasant sight.

"Are you alright?", promptly came the slightly irritated, British accentuated answer.

"He crashed the plane, broke his toy, that is all", Ames quickly interjected. "Everything's okay, though. Beach is nice, shoulda brought bathing stuff. It's warm, plane works fine as shelter… And nobody else is here. Nobody."

A moment of silence on the other end. Ilsa quickly accessed Wikipedia again and looked up if the Isla Mapache had some sort of fresh water supply. The answer was yes. There was actually a very nice natural pool with a waterfall not far from the beach… she wondered if Ames' cell had a signal… The website also informed her of rich fish stocks all around and the absence of any sort of dangerous spiders etc. Chance, with his assassin training, should be able to provide them with decent food for a couple of days and he surely was able to produce a fire…

"Wilco", she transmitted, then cut the connection.

"What was that?", Chance asked, frowning.

Ames, however, smiled. Perfect example of woman-to-woman subtext communication and the male in the room not having a clue. Her smile grew even broader when her cell vibrated and when she quietly checked it, it was a very interesting message from Ilsa.

Chance wasn't quite sure what had happened during the radio transmission, but he did have the feeling Ames and Ilsa had just conspired against him. Ah well, he hadn't hunted down Russian spies and native traitors for nothing.

"Let's see if we find some food till help gets here", he told Ames.

There was something in his voice that sent Ames' alarm bells ringing.

"Are you planning to catch a fish?" Ames wasn't quite sure in which movie she had seen the hero spearing fish with a pocketknife attached to a stick, but she could imagine Chance doing something like that and enjoying it.

"I was thinking in the direction of something containing more protein."

Ames vaguely remembered a scene from the Lion King… Timon and Pumbaa informing young Simba that from now on gazelle was off the menu and beetles and maggots were on… _Slimy yet satisfying…_

"I'm not going to eat anything with antennae!"

"Oh, don't worry, snakes don't have antennae…" Chance retrieved his combat knife from the sheath attached to his ankle and let it gleam in the sunlight.

"Are you kidding me?" Ames dashed to the back of the plane. With a little luck the pilot had left a sandwich somewhere…. Or an apple… a banana… chewing gum… anything that didn't slither!

"It almost tastes like chicken! You'll hardly notice the difference!"

Ames was so busy digging around in the trashed inside of the plane that she didn't notice Chance lazily leaning in the entrance, laughing his ass off at her frantic search operation.

"I don't think I'm hungry", she finally mumbled, shoulders slumping in defeat. _Chicken…_

"Ames…"

She turned around, saw him standing in the doorway, lopsided smile and in his hands… a basket full of groceries!

…that he had quietly moved out of sight when she had been busy checking her cell phone…

"There's more outside. Apparently the pilot was running orders for some remote village. We could stay here for a week and the snakes would still be safe."

... ... ...

As Ilsa had assumed correctly, Chance had a fire burning in no time whatsoever. Half an hour later they enjoyed the first warm meal of the day. Comfortable silence stretched between them, the birds of the island and the waves slapping against the beach the only sounds, except for an occasional crackling of the fire.

It was so tempting to just indulge in this peaceful atmosphere and enjoy it while it lasted. On the other hand... Ames knew she would hardly ever get Chance alone for herself, more or less confined to a small area where he couldn't evade a very necessary conversation by running off.

Although she wouldn't put it past him to swim to the next inhabited island, just to get away from certain topics...

"I think she would be angry with you", Ames said with a sigh, putting the huge plant leaf she had used as a plate aside.

Of course Chance didn't understand what she was talking about, so she decided to make herself a little clearer.

"Katherine", she prompted.

Predictably, Chance put his food down and turned away. "Ames…"

"She wouldn't want you to be lonely for the rest of your life. If she loved you as much as you loved her, she'd want you to be happy." She could see he was ready to bolt. No way. Fiercely determined, she got up and walked into the direction of the pool Ilsa had texted her about.

"Where are you going? Ames?"

She kept on walking, didn't turn around. This worked on horses in that movie with that Redford guy, maybe it worked on ex-assassins, too?

A couple of more steps, she pushed some huge plants out of the way… there was the pool… ah, noises behind her back, Chance was catching up with her.

So, Winston, what exactly was wrong about getting most of your education from TV again?

"Ames…" Chance reached for her arm, but Ames turned away from his grip and began to undress, her blouse, her skirt, her bra, her panties… just like that.

Deliberately not paying any attention to frozen-on-the-spot Chance, she lowered herself into the delightfully cool water. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation of her skin welcoming the water's soothing touch.

For a moment Ames felt she was the center of the world and nothing else mattered.

Then she opened her eyes again and it painfully hit her that that simply wasn't true. Someone around here mattered very, very much.

"Come in here", she said. "The water is fine."


	77. Chapter 77

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**A/N: I really hate to have to announce this, but till July 23**__**rd**__** I will be on a business trip. My internet time will be sparse and I will have to reserve it for somehow continuing my usual job somewhere in between the additional challenges of the trip. No time for fanfiction, I'm afraid. This story is not over yet, there are seven more chapters to come. I wanted to finish it before my departure, but it just didn't work out, I'm sorry. Without niagaraweasel's indispensable help I probably wouldn't even have managed getting tropical island done. Thank you, dear friend! I hope to see you all again on July 23**__**rd**__**. You have no idea what your continuous support, even if it's just silent readership, means to me. Thank you all, very, very much. **_

_**TTFN,**_

_**Ced **_

"Twist lifts look like throw jumps but aren't throw jumps. You lift me in the air and then throw me. I rotate and twist before you catch me on the waist and help me landing."

"You've got to be kidding me!" Violently shaking his head, Ash skated backwards away from Christina and obviously just as insane Ms. Matsumoto. How the hell a supposed-to-be responsible adult could even suggest something as insane as this totally beat him. But apparently winning was more important to her than her protégés' physical well-being.

How come that better-dead-than-second-place attitude had never bothered him while playing ice-hockey?

He hated to admit it, but part of the difference had to do with the protective gear – as an ice-hockey player, about 30 pounds of pads, gloves and guards are between you and the ice. In figure skating, there's nothing.

_Ice-hockey is for boys, figure skating is for men. _With the prospect of somehow having to throw Christina up in the air and making sure she'd make it back to earth safely for both of them, that sentence had never sounded truer.

"Nobody expects a young pair to do a lateral overhead twist. This would blow the judges off their feet!" Trust Ms. Matsumoto to feed Christina's zeal.

"It's not that I'm asking you for a quad twist or anything…" Christina skated towards him, not letting him off the hook. "Big bad ice-hockey player that you are, how can you be such a chicken?"

… … …

"Judging from the look on your face a crocodile just emerged behind my back", Ames told Chance.

"There are some in Venezuela, but the population in Cuba is much bigger", he replied absentmindedly, eyes trained on her face.

"Then it must be me that's so horrifying that you haven't come a step closer since we got here. Open your eyes, Chance! It doesn't get any more beautiful!" Behind her the waterfall was splashing lazily downwards into the aquamarine pool. The slowly setting sun was turning the water's surface and Ames' wet skin golden.

"You're not horrifying", Chance replied. Then he added, barely audible: "But I'm afraid, yes."

"Heed your own philosophy and forget tomorrow, Chance. Tonight we're both alive and here. Just the two of us." She swam towards him and hoisted herself out of the pool.

Maybe it was an automatic reaction, but he bent down and helped her up.

Ames had never been one to miss an opportunity. She grabbed Chance's shirt and pulled him into a deep kiss.

… … …

Ash had the sneaking suspicion the only option for him to make it out of this situation without having to attempt this insane stunt (and subsequently landing Christina in hospital because he sure as hell would drop her) would be to turn tail and RUN.

He was seriously trying to estimate how much the skates would slow him down when an all too familiar voice was speaking up from somewhere in the stands.

"Don't you see he's afraid?"

Helen. As if things weren't bad enough already.

"And rightfully so. What you're proposing is idiotic. For months you keep telling him what an untalented klutz he is and now you want him to perform a maneuver you would have never asked of Andrew?"

Ash almost lost his balance. Was his hearing somehow deceiving him? Or his eyesight? But it really was Helen, now slowly approaching from the furthest block of seats. She must have been watching for a while. Her limping seemed worse than usual.

"Or maybe he is not a bad figure skater at all but actually very talented", she continued as she hobbled closer. "And he has made amazing progress, especially lately." Helen's strict gaze rested on her friend, for a change.

To Ash's utter surprise, Christina blushed.

Ms. Matsumoto of course remained silent, but she didn't answer Helen back either.

Silence stretched between them, but for a change Ash didn't feel uncomfortable in it. Christina, on the other hand, visibly started getting fidgety under her friend's unrelenting stare. Finally she turned towards Ash:

"You've got a ton of talent. You're even better than Andrew. You can do this."

Ms. Matsumoto nodded in agreement. "She is right. With everything."

Ash took a deep breath.

… … …

Ames broke the kiss. "Come on, Chance", she breathed into his ear.

"This has to be a one-time-only thing", he whispered, voice barely audible.

"I'm not planning to go through another airplane crash with you." She planted a gentle kiss on his forehead, then slipped away from him again, back into the water.

"That's not what I was talking about", Chance sighed.

"I know!" Treading water, she came to a halt in the middle of the pool.

Chance took a deep breath.

… … …

Ash and Christina both skated backwards. The times he had had to worry about falling over his toepicks were long gone. They were moving in perfect unison. On Ms. Matsumoto's command Ash lifted Christina over his head, using their momentum both for the initial pull upward and then the all decisive toss into the air. Christina turned, turned… two rotations! Ash straightened… he caught her by the waist.

Oh, good Lord. The second his fingers grasped the fabric of her shirt he knew they'd indeed blow the judges off their feet with this. This was amazing! He had her back under control again, they were still completely in cadence, their balance was perfect…. In one smooth motion he put her back onto the ice and she landed the maneuver on a back outside edge.

The rush of endorphin surging through his body almost made him shiver. Damn it, this had to be the best thing he had ever done!

… … …

Shedding the last piece of his clothes, Chance stepped into the water.


	78. tsubasa means

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**A/N: So, I'm back. Difficult trip, glad to be home. Hope you like the new chapter – thank you for waiting for me!**_

_**~ tsubasa means ~**_

So finally the day was nigh. After months of training tomorrow it was going to be all or nothing.

Ash leisurely cruised the ice and imagined the arena full of people. The idea sent excited shivers down his spine. He knew well how electrified the air felt right before a game and he figured the atmosphere at a skating contest wouldn't differ much. By now he had learned that skaters took their sport damn seriously, too.

It was well after closing time and the only reason Ash was still allowed at the rink was that he was friends with the night watchman, Daniel. The guard, a Desert Storm veteran with a bad leg, had witnessed Ms. Matsumoto and Christina pushing Ash harder and harder over the months. Quite a walk down memory lane sometimes, back to when he had been with the marines. Ms. Matsumoto would have made a fine drill sergeant.

Daniel had also coincidentally eye witnessed Ash and Christina's first overhead twist. Jesus Christ, what an insane maneuver! And God damn, how well the boy had pulled it off! He would have advised Ash to join the army, damn talented kid he was, but there was also something gleaming in his eyes that told the seasoned veteran he probably wouldn't deal too well with orders.

Anyway, considering how hard the boy had worked, Daniel figured he deserved some extra time on the ice and left for his usual tour of inspection, granting Ash some twenty minutes plus to do some final mental preparation. Daniel had followed a similar routine prior to battle, more years ago than he cared to remember, and he knew it was key to survival.

Ash however, suddenly realized that he was not only in the arena way past closing time, he was also seriously transgressing his curfew. His mother was out of town, he was staying at the warehouse and by now Guerrero had probably tracked his cell, checking his whereabouts. Uh-oh, he was in for an earful when he got home. And probably a punishment along the lines of scrubbing the bathroom with a toothbrush, peeling a ton of potatoes or walking Carmine for a week – depending on who got to decide…

As he quickly skated towards the exit, Ash for the first time fleetingly wondered what it would feel like to actually win that contest. He liked the idea. Granted, lifting the Junior ice-hockey cup over his head would have been better, but… remembering the ice-hockey tournament finals that would go down tomorrow as well quickly sobered the boy. His team wouldn't make it. The other team had a fantastic enforcer and the Assassins had never quite managed to find a suitable substitute for Ash. A couple of days ago they had also had to find a stand-in for their goalie. Timothy, the regular one, was in hospital with appendicitis. With two mainstays missing, they were pretty much sunk.

Ash's stomach tightened at the thought. If the dates had only slightly differed! He could have done both, he was sure. It would have been hard with school and all, yeah, but for his mates…

Unfortunately, however, they hadn't and thus he had had to make a decision. And now he had to live with the consequences.

Speaking of consequences… Suddenly Ash became only too well aware of the fact that this late in the evening the arena was awfully quiet. All the grand lights were turned off, causing huge parts of the ice, the stands, the aisles to lie in darkness.

What had raised his awareness? Ash wasn't quite sure, but suddenly he was highly alert.

_Condition Orange. _

He now skated very slowly, straining to separate the rhythmic swoosh of the blades from any unusual sounds. Some sort of noise had caught his attention, he was pretty sure about that. But what kind of noise? Maybe just Dan returning from his tour? But he had only left five minutes ago, unless some sort of emergency had occurred, that was way too early.

Muscles tense, Ash stepped off the ice, through the small exit door. Long shadows obscured most of the corridor that led towards the lockers, only the dim auxiliary lighting led the way. What was he supposed to do now? Somebody could easily lurk there. It was probably wiser to turn around and get back onto the ice, wait till Dan reappeared. On the ice Ash was fast, an advantage towards any kind of attacker… if there was an attacker. Maybe he was just Guerrero-paranoid.

Ash stepped back onto the ice and then did something that probably looked foolish to any onlooker: He removed his blades, placed one by the boards and held the other one firmly in his right hand. Feet only clad in socks, he stepped off the ice again. Now he was able to move silently and swiftly. Not to mention that he was armed with a rather sharp weapon.

Advancing slowly through the corridor, he kept straining his ears for any kind of noise. But there was nothing except the low humming of the machine that kept the ice from melting and the occasional clicking of a light bulb. The building was drafty, causing doors here and there to creak a little in their hinges, but that was it. His breathing slowly returning to normal, Ash entered the locker room. Maybe he was indeed just Guerrero-paranoid after all.

Why in the world had he felt safe in the locker room? A second after his feet had crossed the threshold, he knew he had made a mistake.

"Hey Ash."

He immediately recognized the voice. Simon, his team captain.

"Nice to see you, bud." Darren, the left winger.

Oh damn.

Ash dropped the blade in his hand. These were his buddies. The way they were puffing themselves up they were up to no good, obviously. But that didn't mean Ash wanted to cut their throats.

"You don't really think you're going to win tomorrow while we're going to get our asses kicked?"

Simon's question was rhetorical and Ash knew it. These two were out for blood tonight. There was no other explanation for them showing up this late, hiding out in the locker room… he took a step back and lifted his hands in a gesture of placation, palms turned outward.

Just like Baptiste had taught him.

Yeah, Baptiste.

Which means the second his former friends decided to ignore this gesture and approach him in a clearly aggressive manner, he could use his palms to deliver the first blows – straight to their noses, aiming to break them but not to drive the bone fragments into their brains. All a matter of the angle. Ash had practiced that with Baptiste for hours.

Now, had Baptiste delivered these blows, the fight would have been over before it had really begun.

Ash, however, was nervous, inhibited by the fact that he actually liked his opponents… he didn't strike full force, one of the absolute no-no's in a true fight. And this was a true fight: Darren managed to grab his right arm and twist it around, not inhibited at all. Was he really willing to break it to make sure Ash wouldn't win?

Damnit, THAT HURT!

Ash decided he wasn't going to stick around to find out.

A headbutt to the disfavor of Darren's chin, a kick to Simon's stomach and a violent throw later, the fight was history and Ash was fleeing from the building.

His shoulder was throbbing from Simon's twist, there was some dull pain in the back of his head and his wrists felt a bit odd, but aside from that he was okay. At least physically.

Ash's mind was windmilling. All the way home he wondered what he was going to tell his Dad. He or some other team member would surely spot the traces of the fight on him. Should he tell him what had happened? He felt the urgent need to talk to him… he had just hurt his friends… people he had really liked… Ash felt horrible.

When he came back to the warehouse, however, he found it deserted, except for a very nervous Ilsa who realized with a shock that she had totally forgotten checking on Ash, although Chance had explicitly told her to keep a wary eye on him.

Tonight was the night. They were finally going to free Michele.


	79. Chapter 79

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

So finally the day had come. After weeks of planning it was now going to be all or nothing. They were going to free Michele – or, given who their opponent was, going to perish.

"Don't die, will you?", was a frequent farewell wish they used among themselves before entering the action stage of a job and although they usually added it in a semi-joking manner, there was always a touch of seriousness to it, a bitter grain of knowledge that they very well might never see each other again.

_Know your enemy. Study him well, find out his weaknesses and take advantage of them. _Wise words from a true Samurai.

Absentmindedly Guerrero traced the intricate tattoo on his skin with his right index finger tip. As usual he had heeded Master Ryuu's advice to a T and dug deep into Innokentij's life. Problem was, this time around he had found no weaknesses. Not even a sweet tooth or some other petty idiocy. Innokentij was dangerous.

Luckily, the Master had had some advice for that unlikely case, too. _If he doesn't have any weaknesses, get to know his strong sides. Then work around them. Never challenge someone on his own battlefield. _

Guerrero rested the complete palm of his hand on his ink-covered upper arm for a moment. As he looked up he saw Chance on the other end of the room doing the same. Ryuu had trained them for these kind of situations. He had helped them to find the balance of mind that was needed to succeed in battle. And he had taught them to trust each other.

Chance suddenly looked up, too, met his eyes. Knowing what Guerrero was thinking, he nodded briefly. His friend replied with an equally brief nod.

Winston noticed the wordless exchange between the two and harrumphed loudly. Time was running out. This time tomorrow Michele would be sold out to the highest bidder. They only had this one night left to act.

"Working around Innokentij's strength" in this case meant they were going to go diving at night in a canal with a high flow velocity and an extremely low average temperature of 59°F. Since that canal, Smith's Canal, cut directly through the city of Stockton, CA, it was likely to have huge pieces of garbage on the ground – prams, shopping carts, bikes… The usual crap that accumulated when city finances were too tight to ensure a regular dredging. Very dangerous for a diver, especially if said diver was as inexperienced as Winston.

But Winston had insisted. He was going to tag along. Shame is a damn powerful thing. It can guilt you into stupid decisions.

Chance had pleaded with Ames that at least she stayed above ground, but she had pointed out firmly and, yes, correctly too, that above ground in this case she was totally useless and below ground they needed all the firepower they could get.

The thing was that Stockton in better times, when taxes had been rolling in thanks to some successful locally owned factories that by now had all closed down, had wanted to build a subway network, similar to New York's or London's.

Not exactly a bright idea when a city is mainly characterized by an enormous amount of waterways. Water inrush became such a hazardous problem (two construction workers drowned) that in the end the city gave up its grandiose plan.

What remained, though, were a couple of subterranean subway stations, disconnected from the rest of the world, left to themselves, ghost towns underneath the city's busy surface, buried and half-forgotten.

Guess where Innokentij had chosen to build горизонт's new HQ?

Right under Grange Avenue, unbeknownst to the residents, lay the one subway station the construction company had almost managed to finish. Interestingly it was the one at the most precarious location – very close to Smith's Canal, high danger of flooding, destabilization of walls, enormous corrosion rate of building materials… but the workers had drowned elsewhere, after heavy rainfall. The engineers at the Grange Avenue site had constructed an enormously clever system of sluice chambers to keep the station dry. Huge steel gates protected the station… still.

Tonight, however, they would serve as the team's way in.

You cannot simply blow open an underwater sluicegate. Not when the general idea is to enter secretly. Undetected. As quietly as possible.

They'd use a very small amount of plastic explosives to work a very tiny opening into the thick sluicegate that separated Smith's Canal from the first sluice chamber. The water level in that one would inevitably rise, but hopefully slowly enough to not show up on Innokentij's radar too soon. Guerrero had gotten them a special type of foamed concrete that would hopefully cover the hole at least partly once they were in.

From the first chamber they'd slowly worm their way through the next four and eventually come out in the short tunnel part that had once been meant to form the beginning of the West Stockton-Midtown line. Thanks to their anonymous source they knew Michele was kept in a small cell close to that tunnel part.

Once they had her there was no other option but to shoot their way through to Innokentij's supply shaft on the other side of his HQ. Hopefully they'd have the element of surprise on their side…

If the hole accidentally became too big…

If they were detected to soon…

If Michele was not in that chamber…

They had debated calling in the police, but what evidence did they have? And Innokentij had important people in his pocket. Had he gotten wind of any kind of operation against him, he'd have made Michele disappear forever, a risk they couldn't take.

The dark waves of the canal's icy-cold water lazily slapped against their rented boat's hull. Ames felt oddly reminded of the tropical island she and Chance had been stranded on mere days ago. The night after their return she had crawled into his bed and he hadn't protested. From then on she had done it every night.

It would really not be fair if she died right now.

Taking a deep breath, she put on the last piece of her diving equipment.

After entering the canal they had switched off all lamps on the boat, even the navigation lights. It now silently floated in the darkness like something not quite of this world. Scylla and Charybdis…

At Chance's command, they slipped into the water one by one.


	80. Chapter 80

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

Chance had taught Winston how to dive, years ago. And every now and then they had practiced, even under difficult circumstances such as among sharks (only once) or in stormy weather. But this here was a far cry from anything they had ever tried. It was dark, it was cold, maneuvering was extremely difficult. Winston had thought the flashlights of the others would help him to orientate underwater, but actually they confused him, mainly because they were nothing but balls of light in the darkness, none of the beams stretching out more than a few inches.

He was just about to lose his sense of up and down when suddenly a tiny red light started blinking madly, a couple of feet from him. The signal that Guerrero was going to blow the first hole! Winston quickly swam backwards, bumped into something metallic, lost the grip on his flashlight. Damn it! It vanished between a heap of spiky rubble on the ground, irretrievable. Thank God he had a spare one, but if he kept blundering like that, he was putting the whole operation at risk.

_He was putting Michele at risk. _

_Concentrate, Winston. You can't let her down again. _

Something brushed against him. A hand, sympathetically patting his shoulder for a second. Chance? Ames?

No matter who, Winston's heart rate finally settled down. This was not resting on him alone. They were in this together.

Getting through the first hole was surprisingly unproblematic. Just like they had expected, the first sluice chamber was half-way underwater, level rising fast. The foam Guerrero had brought worked well, though, and they could quickly tackle the second gate.

As Chance watched the dim flash of the explosion that, he was sure, would create a perfect entrance, not too big to destabilize the steel, not too small to potentially damage one of their neoprene suits, he felt an icy-cold shiver run down his spine that had nothing to do with the water's temperature.

He hated having Ames on board. This job had everything in it that could lead to disaster – lack of light, huge amounts of water, a heavily armed crew under the command of an unscrupulous bastard. There had been a time in his life when that kind of situation had excited him. And, given his stunt show with the airplane not too long ago in Venezuela, he was still not completely immune against that feeling. But ever since the appearance of Ash, his perspective was slowly changing. With Ames now adding even more gravity to the issue, would it always be like that from here on? Would he become a worrier, like Winston?

There was no way he could push Ash out of his life again. And Ames had become vital to him, too. Back on the island he hadn't simply given in to a tempting situation. He had finally admitted what he had been longing for.

As he cautiously swam through the new hole, Chance decided that he would make the whole matter a tomorrow problem – by getting past the bad guys, freeing Michele, surviving this.

Just then, unbeknownst to them, a rather inexperienced young boatman steered his father's yacht up Smith's Channel although it was strictly forbidden at night. He was more than a little bit intoxicated and not exactly paying attention to where he was going. The whole world was a bit blurred and there was this blonde girl by his side…

Not really surprising that he saw the totally lightless boat floating by the canal's side at the level of Grange Avenue way too late.

Oh damnit, his father would kill him for this.

… … …

"What ruckus is that outside?", Innokentij asked, frowning. Normally he wouldn't have been present at his HQ at this time of night, but tomorrow the big auction would go down and he preferred being close to his momentarily most prized article. Better safe than sorry…

"An accident on Smith's Canal", his assistant replied, checking the local news and police radio. "Some rich boy bumped into an unlighted boat with Daddy's toy yacht."

Innokentij's frown deepened. "Where on Smith's Channel exactly?"

_Grange Avenue._

The answer was no real surprise to him. Back when they had turned the subway station into the new HQ, Innokentij had contemplated putting sensors on the sluicegates, but technical difficulties, costs and the very low chance that anyone would be crazy enough to try and get in that way had kept him from ordering their installation.

_Not bad, Mr. Chance, not bad…_

"Gather a unit at the tunnel entrance", he told his assistant. "Another one by the canal. But tell them to be careful, there's probably still police or a rescue squad around thanks to the accident with the rich kid. We don't want to have to shoot some loyal servants of the city, do we? And let me take a look at the controls of the pump system for the sluicechambers. I didn't have them renovated for nothing."

_But unfortunately not good enough. _

… … …

Chance noticed it first. They were in the third sluicechamber by now. Almost no water in here. They had taken off their diving equipment to move more freely. "Guerrero, that noise…"

"Somebody activated the pumps." Simple statement, huge significance. The pumps were not emptying the chamber, they were filling it.

"What in the world…?" Ames watched with horror as the water's level steadily rose. In no time at all it seemed to reach first her ankles, than her knees… the water was rushing in with enormous pressure, threatening to push them off their feet. It was cold, so goddamn cold.

"The Russian dude is trying to flush us out – back into the canal. Where he probably has a crew waiting", Guerrero explained.

"How much explosives have we left?", Chance asked, eyes trained on the wall in front of him.

"I know what you're thinking, bro, and it's insane…"

"You, Ames, Winston, go back through the holes we've already made. Shouldn't be too difficult to blow them open again. They're most likely not waiting in the water but on the shore. Swim towards Yosemite Lake. There's a good chance they won't see you. I take the rest of the explosives and get Michele."

"NO WAY!" The yell came in complete unison.

"This is suicide!"

"She's right, bro."

"We can't leave Michele behind. This is our last chance to get her." Chance reached for the explosives in Guerrero's hands, but Winston was faster.

"You're not attempting this alone."

Chance looked at Winston. Winston looked at Chance. Their eyes met and neither looked away.

"Guerrero, take Ames and get out of here alive. Winston and I are going to get Michele." Chance was still locking eyes with Winston. The water had reached their hips by now.

"I need both of you to look after Ash. He's becoming a handful… too much for Philippa alone to handle… always pulling crazy stunts… must be his mother's side…" Now he finally faced them, lopsided smile on his face.

Ames stomach turned to ice. Everything in her wanted to scream at him, she wanted to grab him, drag him out of here…

But him asking her to look out for Ash… him trusting her with his son…

Guerrero nodded in silent resignation. He was a father, too. If the situation was reversed, he'd ask Chance the same thing. "Get your oxygen, Ames. No time for the suit."


	81. Chapter 81

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

As soon as Guerrero and Ames had disappeared through the reopened hole in the third gate, Winston and Chance distributed the rest of the explosives along the wall that separated the subway station's tunnel stubble from the sluice chamber. Then they quickly retreated as far from the wall as possible – thankfully the chamber was rather large, but there was still the chance that the explosion would blast them into pieces.

The water that Innokentij was still pumping into the room was a critical factor, both regarding their safety and their Michele rescue plan. With a little luck, it would cushion the explosion's impact and swamp the bad guys that were surely waiting on the other side, guns at the ready. It was a gamble, and they were gambling for high stakes.

… … …

Innokentij watched the stream of data that showed him the pressure of the pumps and the rising water level in the sluicechambers with little satisfaction. Simply flushing the intruders out somehow didn't feel like a sufficient countermeasure to such an elaborate break-in plan. Innokentij himself would have had a Plan B in that kind of situation. Christopher Chance, as far as he knew, liked to wing it. Made him even more dangerous. That man was of a caliber that under no circumstances should be taken likely.

"Remove the woman", he ordered his assistant. Coming in through the sluicechambers smelt like inside knowledge – someone must have told Chance and his crew about the HQ's weakest point. They most likely knew where Michele Winston was hidden. Better safe than sorry.

Just then a huge explosion shook Innokentij's office, made the coffee cup on his desk dance and tumble. All monitors froze, then went completely black. Innokentij, however, didn't need the cameras to know what had just happened. He could hear the water rush into the subway station. They must have blown away the wall at the end of the stubble tunnel.

_Again not bad, Mr. Chance. Really not bad. _

He grabbed his gun and headed towards the small cell near the tunnel entrance where he kept Michele.

_But it takes more than a little fireworks to beat me, Tovarishch. _

… … …

The explosion threw Chance back so mightily, he hit the chamber's wall badly and momentarily lost consciousness. The icy cold water, however, quickly brought him back to his senses. Where was Winston? It was so goddamn dark and thanks to the blast he had lost his flashlight. Dim light seeping in from the stubble tunnel created pitch black shadows on the water, but no details were visible. All sorts of rubble was floating around, among them one of their shotguns, still wrapped watertight. Good, he might need it. But where was Winston?

"She's going to drown! Chance! She's going to drown!"

Winston was alive! Chance let out a deep sigh of relief. Then he grabbed a second watertight bundle and floated it towards his friend. "Unwrap it", he yelled. "Time for niceties is over!"

Black silhouettes appeared in the hole in the wall. Neither Winston nor Chance hesitated. No time for niceties – they opened fire immediately. The black shadows fell, silently, unspectacularly – as if they really had been only that, shadows, not real people. As quickly as the water allowed, Winston and Chance advanced. Luckily the explosion had not taken out the HQ's electricity. The further they went down the short tunnel, the more they could see.

Apparently a group of five or six heavily armed men had been waiting for them on the other side of the wall. Except for the two they had shot, the explosion had taken out all of them, by either killing them instantly or severely injuring them. Their bodies were floating around amongst the rubble. At least it looked like that. There was no telling if there wasn't another surviving thug hiding in the shadows somewhere. Covering each other's backs as well as they could, they headed towards the small cell where Michele, according to their informant, was kept.

Winston tried to push the image of the empty room they had found at the end of their last rescue operation as far to the back of his mind as possible. This wouldn't happen this time. It just wouldn't.

Chance couldn't help but think that the first thing he'd do when someone ambushed his HQ to free somebody, would be to remove the person. Innokentij probably thought along the same lines – he was no fool. If they had managed to sneak in quietly… but with explosions and shootouts? Their only hope now lay in speed. Maybe they'd manage to reach Michele before Innokentij managed to have her taken away.

"That's it, right?" Breathing heavily, Winston reached for the handle of a heavy, dark green steel door.

"Step aside!", Chance yelled. What was Winston thinking? That Innokentij left something like that unlocked? For all they knew about that bastard, he might have booby trapped the door!

"Michele? It's Chance and Winston! If you hear us, get as far away from the entrance as you can!" It was a huge risk, but there was no other choice – he fired a round at the damn thing, awaiting an explosion that would reduce all of them to dust.

No explosion.

Instead the door simply gave way and revealed a sparsely furnished room with a flooded floor, a sink, a bed – and a very thin but alive Michele, chained to the wall.

"I just knew it was you!", she greeted her ex-husband. "You've never been one for the subtle approach."

Winston quickly went to get the cuffs off her, while Chance checked his gun's chamber… no more bullets left. This could pose a problem. Maybe Winston had…? But it was unlikely.

"Okay Chance, let's go!" Winston grabbed Michele by the waist to help her off the bed.

"Not so fast."

Michele froze. Winston froze. Chance froze. Slowly, very slowly, Winston turned his head.

Dark water swirling around his feet, Innokentij stood in the doorway, gun trained straight at Chance.

Michele let out a terrified scream. Not again! NOT AGAIN!

Chance was looking at Innokentij, but what he actually saw was Winston in the office, drunk and broken.

"Winston, take Michele and run."

Winston recognized Chance's tone. It had been a while since he had last heard it. Back in that horror house of traps, when he had sent Emma Barnes away. When he had been determined to die and thus save her life. It was the same tone of voice, exactly the same. What the hell was Chance was plan… oh no. If he threw himself against Innokentij, acting as a human shield, Winston could grab Michele and run.

No. No way. Chance would get riddled with bullets.

It was no conscious decision, no weighing of options – Winston just knew he couldn't let that happen. Just like he couldn't stop breathing or sleeping or eating.

Chance lunged forwards. Winston lunged forwards.

Innokentij, knowing that he had the upper hand and could take his time, stepped backwards a bit.

What an interesting picture: Two men, tangled into each other, trying to save each other's lives…. The way the two were rolling on the floor, he could take them both out with one bullet.

He aimed.

A thought struck his mind. A rational, economic thought that had nothing to do with saving a bullet.

He slowly nodded, agreeing with himself. Chance and Winston were still busy wrestling with each other. Innokentij raised his gun, aimed at Michele.

"Parting gift", he said and pulled the trigger.

Michele screamed. Winston and Chance immediately froze, turned towards her.

With horrible force a bullet cut through Michele's leg. But only her leg.

When Chance and Winston looked into the direction of the doorway again, Innokentij was gone.


	82. Chapter 82

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Thanks to Chance's "Aunt Suzie" maneuver back in the bank with the bearded guy during the ordeal with the book, Winston knew exactly what it felt like when a bullet went through a body part of yours – EXCRUCIATING PAIN.

The second she got hit Michele instinctively curled up into a tight ball, whimpering pitifully. But there was no helping it, they needed to get her out of this death trap. For all they knew Innokentij could have simply spared them to play a little more – like a cat, tossing around a mouse before going for the kill.

Lifting her together, they managed to get Michele off the bed. Her cries were stomach-turning and the pain was clouding her judgment. She kept telling them to just leave her alone and even swatted at them. The men both knew well how to deal with struggling people, knew how to handle them and render them immobile. Nevertheless having to move her, having to cause her more pain because there was absolutely no other option... it did not fail to leave a mark on the men.

They expected to be under fire the second they stepped out of the cell, but actually they were met with sinister silence. No sounds at all except the rushing of the water that was slowly filling the tunnel and the station. The lamps were flickering, apparently the moisture was starting to affect the electricity supply. Maybe _that _was Innokentij's plan – close down all exits and let them drown down here, like cats in a bag. When Chance activated the nearest of Innokentij's disguised freight elevators, he pretty much expected it to be locked down.

He was wrong.

The elevator rattled and stopped a few times, but it finally did bring them to the surface. What the hell…?

... ... ...

Luckily their getaway car was still parked exactly where they had positioned it. Chance, however, was still holding his breath. On the one hand he wasn't putting it beyond Innokentij to have somehow found out about the car and having planted a bomb underneath. On the other hand - and more importantly - they had lost all contact with Ames and Guerrero after Chance had sent them away in the sluice chamber. What if they hadn't made it to Lake Yosemite? Innokentij had had suspiciously few men down in his HQ... probably because he had sent a second crew out to the canal, to "welcome" them.

The bomb problem, however, was more urgent.

"Stay back", Chance told Winston, then carefully approached the rented van, looking for any signs that someone had tampered with it. Michele, in Winston's arms, was still crying. Winston had to put his hand over her mouth so that she wouldn't wake the neighborhood. Mentally and physically exhausted and by now completely breaking down, she struggled once more against his hold. Having to force her into stillness was one of the hardest things Winston had ever done.

Chance quietly circled the car. It looked untouched. But Innokentij was a professional. Maybe they should steal another car altogether... But they had equipment stashed in there, they needed to provide Michele with first care, they needed to find out if Ames and Guerrero were okay, damn it...

A sound from the van. Chance threw himself to the ground.

The vehicle's door slid open.

"Dude, what are you waiting for? Handwritten invitations? Get in, let's go!" Guerrero and Ames, both wet but alive and well. Ames had suffered a few scratches and Guerrero sported bruised knuckles, but aside from that they both seemed okay.

Deep sigh of relief.

Ilsa arranged for a large rescue helicopter to pick them up a little outside Stockton so that Michele's leg could receive proper first care from a doctor while they were all flying back to San Francisco. The wound was severe, though. It required surgical intervention. Winston declared he would stay with Michele at the hospital, no matter what. Since the hospital had a Pucci wing (Ilsa had decided that would make getting special treatment for the team a lot easier and yes, indeed, the hospital was very cooperative) he'd surely have a chance to grab a shower. They had stashed spare clothes in the getaway car, but Ilsa promised to send more comfortable clothes for Winston to the hospital.

A quick glance at the watch told Chance that he would make it to Ash's figure skating contest. He'd even have time for a quick shower if he skipped the first few pairs. Ames insisted she'd accompany him and disappeared into the office's shower facilities once they had finally made it back to the warehouse. When Chance came back down the stairs, however, he found her on the sofa in the lobby. Fully dressed and ready to go, fresh make-up on her face, purse by her side, matching pumps at her feet, but sound asleep.

Ilsa, on tiptoes, handed him a blanket and he cautiously covered Ames with it, removing her shoes and tucking a pillow under her head. She was snoring slightly. It had been a long night. Carmine came trotting in from the direction of the kitchen, took one long look at Ames and then placed himself on the rug in front of the sofa. Always the guardian.

As long as it didn't require fast movements…

"Watch her too, will you? Things got a little rough. If anything happens, call a doctor and send me a message", Chance instructed Ilsa.

"I'll send you my driver", she replied, smiling. For a brief moment their eyes met. He smiled back, not that boyish million watt smile he so often sported, but a much milder, softer version.

_Thank you,_ it said.

Then he headed out the door.

He didn't like leaving Ames behind, but Philippa was stuck in some Eastern European country with a job, Winston was at the hospital, Guerrero had claimed he had an urgent telephone call to make and the Old Man was busy, too. They couldn't leave Ash completely alone on his big day, could they? Especially Joubert's absence was suspicious, Chance had heard a couple of rumors… now that the Michele ordeal was finally over, he needed to take a closer look at them.

… … …

As Chance headed out to the ice-rink, Guerrero was sitting on a park bench, cell phone pressed to his ear, listening to the source he had finally dug out after months and months of tracking, bribing, threatening and, yes, also killing.

Others would have smiled triumphantly after finally getting what they had struggled for so hard. He didn't allow himself any display of emotion. This had cost lives. Not that he mourned those thugs he had had to take out, he wasn't Chance, but he was feeling far from jubilant. Contrary to popular opinion, he didn't take pleasure from blood spilling.

He ended the call and waited. Two seconds later the phone signaled. The evidence for the information his source had just revealed – copies of text messages, very telling text messages. Guerrero punched in a new number, one he hadn't used in a long time and hadn't planned using ever again.

"Basil?", he didn't wait for a reply. Better to get this over with quickly. "I'm forwarding you a couple of text messages you might find interesting." He hung up, sent off the messages and tossed his phone.

This would most likely cause a war inside the Basil's organization. More bloodshed, high possibility of collateral damage: Children, wives, nannies, drivers, innocent bystanders. But the only way to protect Michele from being taken again. Only if the knowledge who had tried to kill the Basil stopped being valuable, they would get off her trail for good.

To Guerrero, the decision had been simple.

Someone always loses.


	83. Chapter 83

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.**

Right before he entered the actual arena, Chance quickly sent a text message - _They're not selling any popcorn! _

The reply came while he was sitting down, quietly apologizing left and right for being so late.

_Very funny, Dad._

Chance seriously knew zilch about figure skating. He could vaguely name the positions of the players in ice-hockey and two or three major teams, but _figure skating_? Completely unknown territory to him. And, to be honest, one he didn't wish to explore any further than he absolutely had to. He knew through Ash how physically demanding a sport it was and how much it required balance, both regarding body control and mind wise. But still it took place on an ice-covered surface and that pretty much disqualified it for him.

_Good Luck_, he texted his son.

When Ash didn't reply, Chance knew he was busy getting ready and settled back into his seat. Thanks to his lateness only two more pairs to go and then it would be Ash's and Christina's turn. They'd also be the final pair of the competition. Chance wondered if Ash knew that his former team had just suffered a devastating loss in the ice-hockey finals.

Behind the boards on the other side of the ice he could make out Ms Matsumoto and Andrew, the boy Ash had hurt so badly. At least he wasn't on crutches anymore. Further up the ranks he was pretty sure he could see Helen, dressed completely in black and gray, as usual.

The next to last pair finished its performance ill-fatedly but spectacularly with a sudden fall, both boy and girl crashed to the ground rather unceremoniously near the end of a complicated looking lift. Miraculously no one got hurt, but it set a strange atmosphere for Ash's and Christina's performance.

Chance knew the two had opted for a Phantom of the Opera theme, but this was the first time he actually saw them in their costumes - Christina in a fluttery white something, embroidered with pearls, Ash in a tuxedo, face half covered by a white mask. When the music started to play, however, Chance recognized the instrumental version of an old Crowded House song - _Four Seasons in One Day_. Jeez, what had made them choose that song, of all options?

As Ash went down in a low pivot position, holding Christina by the arm while she was skating in a circle around him, on a deep edge with her body close to the ice, Chance couldn't help but add the lyrics to the song. His body was bruised and beaten and in general the events of the night were now coming back to him, invading his thoughts. Maybe that was why one line kept repeating over and over in his head - _blood dries up/like rain, like rain/fills my cup.._. The horror of Michele's screams, all the water rushing in, the men they had mown down so uncaringly with their shotguns... they had screamed, too.

So many years after saying good-bye to the assassin business blood still filled his cup.

The music changed to a more recent song, Milow's _You don't know_, and again the lyrics wouldn't leave Chance alone - _You don't know, you don't know anything about me..._ Both him and Philippa preferred to ignore the problem, but one day Ash would see through their web of lies, he'd start asking questions and sooner or later would demand the truth. What would they do then? Tell him?

On the ice Ash lifted Christina up and carried her for a few moments like a waiter would have carried a silver tray. She spread her arms like a bird. Chance recognized the move Ash had practiced with Isu. When Ash put Christina back down again, the music became stronger, somewhat more massive. _The Phantom of the Opera._

Although he had known before that they would use this theme, the music now sent shivers down his spine. Years ago a girl had dragged Chance into the musical version of the Phantom of the Opera. He had slept through half of it, but he vividly remembered the moment when Christine finally removed the Phantom's mask. She was shocked, completely, totally shocked by his real face, and in the original version she fled from him. The musical version watered that down to Christine leaving the Phantom after having moved it with her pity, but still…

To Chance The Phantom of the Opera boiled down to a monster underneath a mask, too repellent to be loved.

The music was becoming more dominated by drums, indicating that the performance's climax was nigh. In the darkness of the stands Chance watched his child with a wildly beating heart.

What if Ash hated him, once he'd know the truth?

… … …

Ash's heart was beating wildly, too. This morning he had woken with slight pain in his shoulder. After treating it with a mixture of herbs and potter's earth just like he had learned from Guerrero, it had stopped, but during warm-up it had suddenly returned, sharper than before, and by now white hot jolts were shooting through his whole arm. So far he had managed to stick it out, but the swan lift had been too much. His arm felt half-way numb, how in the world was he supposed to throw Christina?

A wave of anger washed over Ash – this just couldn't be! He had worked his ass off for this competition and so far their performance had been flawless. They could win this thing! It just wasn't fair that Darren and Simon should succeed after all! And what about Christina? She'd KILL him if he failed right now! Not to mention Helen and Ms. Matsumoto. Andrew… Goddamn it, all this work, for nothing? What would his Dad say?

His dad…

_Don't be afraid of breaking up a lift if you don't feel comfortable with it. She's giving you her body, it's your responsibility to take care of it._

His dad's words… back when they had taught him how to lift someone…

Should he really give up just like that? The image of Darren and Simon triumphing caused a new influx of adrenalin to rush through his veins. Suddenly the arm didn't feel that bad anymore. But would it be enough to throw Christina up and catch her safely again? He could easily imagine her tirade, should he back out at the last minute… And his former buddies would brag with this from now till Judgment Day.

… _it's your responsibility…_

"No throw lift", he ordered in a voice he hoped would make clear this was not up for debate. "Catchfoot, arabesque and over."

This was the ending they had originally planned, before Christina and Ms. Matsumoto had come up with the idea of the throw lift. It matched with the music and Christina, although taken by surprise, managed to adjust just in time. They were maybe a tiny bit behind the beat, but it was miniscule.

"Bastard", Christina hissed at him as they stood still after the music's last chord.

And predictably, that was only the beginning.

They ended up with the second best scoring, but neither Christina nor Ms. Matsumoto stopped snarling at him long enough to really notice. For the prize giving ceremony they put up smiling faces, but afterwards they picked up from where they had been interrupted. Thank God the boys had a different locker than the girls. Feeling like a coward already anyway, he took his time to change.

When he finally dared showing his face again, his father was waiting for him in the lobby.

"Hey…", he said.

"Hey…", Ash replied, walking towards him, shoulders slumped.

Both didn't really know what else to say.

Just then a familiar voice called out to them: "In my opinion you've done great!"

Father and son wheeled around.

"Mom!", Ash yelled.

"Guerrero managed to hack into the arena's security feed; he set up a connection to my cell phone. I watched you in the cab."

Dropping his bag and all attempts at coolness, Ash dashed towards Philippa and hugged her tightly.

"Long day, hm?", she said, stroking his hair.

"Food at the warehouse?", Chance suggested and Ash silently nodded, his face still buried in Philippa's coat.

Wrapping his arms around both of them, Chance led them outside to his car.


	84. Chapter 84

**Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement. **

_**A/N: So this is it - gaaah! The final chapter of my take on what season five might have been like. I can't believe I got so far... and I would never ever have if not for the relentless efforts of niagaraweasel. Every day she spends between two and three HOURS beta reading whatever I send her, making suggestions, playing my soundboard. This has turned into a real life friendship which has tremendously enriched my life. Thank you, dear friend. Thank you. **_

_**I also wouldn't know what to do without the constant support of veniceit who more than once had to remind me that sleep, yes, is a necessity. Pocket Sevens, minx227 and mvignal, THANK YOU for your feedback both public and private! You really keep me going. To all my silent readers: This story is read by about 25 people and every single one of you means the world to me. Special greetings to the UK, Australia and Ireland! **_

_**I'm going to write a sixth season, called "Jishin means". This weekend I'll be working and travelling again. I don't think I'll be able to post anything, but I hope come Tuesday I'll be back in the saddle and can start with the first chapter of the first "episode". I so hope you liked this season. It would be great if you decided to give the next a try, too - see you! **_

In the car, Ash was exceptionally silent. No cell phone ringing, no listening to music on his ipod. Head resting against the window, he was staring off into the distance instead.

Chance knew this state of exhaustion well. The adrenalin rush was slowly wearing off, the pain was increasingly overshadowing all other sensations. What was much worse, though, were all the thoughts suddenly pouring in, the endless stream of "what ifs" and "I should haves" that kept you awake at night or could make you turn to the bottle.

"Jobs do go south, you know. Sometimes things simply are beyond your control."

Chance flinched as soon the words had left his mouth. _Jobs _did go south? Had he just called Ash's figure skating ordeal a _job_? Had he unintentionally likened what Ash had done to what he did for a living? NO! For heaven's sake, no! His son was not like him.

"As sad as it is, some things are irreversible", Philippa just then softly chimed in. "You can't undo them, no matter how much you regret your part in it and would like to make it all alright again. Life always goes on. No matter what, the wheels keep on grinding. It can bring you down at times. Keeping on living, that's the hardest part. Facing another day and trying to do better, despite the weight on your shoulders... Letting guilt and remorse eat you away is just as wrong as ignoring the consequences of your actions. Finding a balance and never giving yourself up, that's the real challenge."

Ash raised his head at Philippa's words. She had spoken so seriously… in a totally different tone than he was used to from her…. She always treated him with respect, never made him feel like he was a baby… but this stood out nevertheless. She had addressed him like an adult.

Looking from his father to his mother and back again, it suddenly dawned on Ash that they both knew, _really _knew, what they were talking about. The thin lines on his father's face as he clenched his jaw... The sad shimmer in his mother's eyes… They, too, had done things they deeply regretted.

His first impulse was to ask what they were talking about, what deeds they had committed that made them so understanding for his situation. A tiny little voice inside his head, however, stopped him before he could bombard them with questions: _Do you really want to know? Are you sure? Never wake a sleeping dragon… _

Oh great. Perfect moment for a Harry Potter quote.

But there was some truth to it…

Suddenly Ash was afraid. The expression on his parents' faces… More afraid than he had ever been in his life.

He kept his mouth shut.

A second later his father's cell phone signaled. "Ilsa", Chance grinned. "For some reason she's hell-bent on cooking tonight – she's ordered groceries!"

"Groceries" as in _fresh vegetables_?" Philippa laughed, shooing away the somber mood her words had created. "Your fridge is probably going to die from shock!"

His mother's laughter loosened the knot in Ash's stomach again. No matter what, these were his parents. And goddamn, was he glad to have them.

… … …

Michele's eyes slowly fluttered open. According to the doctors she'd heal completely, just a bit of rest… food that would rebuild her strength… a thorough physical therapy and a good psychologist. It would take a while, but she'd recover.

Winston couldn't wait till she was fully awake again. There was so much he wanted to tell her.

He squeezed her hand, lightly stroked her skin with his thumb in small, irregular circles. Back before they had gotten married he had done that a lot. The long incarceration had turned her fingers bony and thin… but this would all go away again… she'd completely recover. This was the best news he had gotten in a long time.

Her eyes were completely open now, and they had found focus on him.

"Hey", Winston whispered.

Michele managed a smile. "Thank you", she croaked.

Winston cautiously kissed her forehead.

Silence filled the room, disturbed by nothing but her ragged breathing.

"Winston?" Her voice was barely audible. Tears were filling her eyes. "I'd like… I'd like…"

"Shhh, darling…" He reached for a tissue on the nightstand. "Whatever it is, I'll get it for you."

"Hank…", she whispered, a single tear rolling down her face.

… … …

Later Winston couldn't remember how he found the way out of the room, to the reception desk where he somehow let the nurse know that she needed to call Hank, and to the door of the hospital. He came back to his senses on the parking lot, when someone took the keys of his car from his hand before he had a chance to unlock the door.

"Don't think you should drive, dude."

Winston knew he should want to shout, kick, hammer his fist into the vehicle's roof… but he felt nothing but emptiness. It was as if all strength had left his body.

"Ilsa keeps the really good stuff in her safe", Guerrero told him. "20 year old Scotch... She thinks it's _safe_ there." His trademark wolfish grin appeared on his face. "Let's prove her wrong." Almost gently he maneuvered Winston into the car.

… … …

_Second place is fine. _

"Everything alright?", Chance asked his son, who was still staring at the text message from Helen he had received a couple of moments ago.

"Yeah… I'm good…", Ash replied absentmindedly. _So we okay?_, he texted back.

The answer came promptly.

_I would've KILLED u if u had dropped her._

Good to know. Ash returned to chopping zucchini alongside his parents. Ames and Ilsa were busy creating the dessert – freestyle, from what it sounded:

"More chocolate, we need more chocolate."

"This strawberry sauce is simply fantastic, come on, let's add some more."

"A couple of pistachios surely can't hurt, can they?"

"Isn't this somehow against the Marshall Pucci Foundation's employee Health and Wellness program?", Chance joked, slicing the carrots into pieces so thin, you could almost look through them.

"Tonight we're heavy on the wellness", Ilsa replied in mock seriousness, then started laughing. She was so, so relieved to have them all back, unharmed. To hell with cholesterol, fat and sugar!

The elevator dinged and out stepped Winston and Guerrero. They seemed to be a bit surprised to find the office so crowded, and for a tiny moment Winston even looked as if he wanted to turn around and leave again, but then Ames offered him a spoon full of chocolate sauce.

Uncharacteristically reluctantly, he took it, paused, tasted the creamy substance, paused again, looked around at the people his life was revolving around for so many years now.

For a moment, without actually realizing it, they all halted, looked back at him.

Slowly Winston let his gaze wander from one person to the next – Philippa… Ash… Ames… Ilsa… Guerrero… and Chance. He let his eyes rest on Chance the longest. Chance was looking straight back at him.

He knew they were both thinking about the same thing – the moment in the subterranean cell, when they had struggled to protect each other from Innokentij's bullet.

So foolish. He could have killed them both.

But letting the other die?

_I'd do it again_, the look on Chance's face said. 

_Me too_, said the look on Winston's face.

He went to lay the table with the help of Ash, while Guerrero and Chance took over the rather delicate task of sewing the vegetables into thin wraps of meat.

"Why do you think the Russian dude let you go?", Guerrero asked quietly. The others were in such a good mood, no need to ruin that.

"No idea", Chance replied, pressing his lips together. "Somehow I doubt he suddenly discovered his humanitarian side."

Ames came over to let them taste the sauce for the meat rolls. "Ilsa's recipe", she chirped happily. "I spiced it up a bit."

They both fell silent. Innokentij was a tomorrow problem.

Tonight they were alive and well.

The sauce tasted fantastic.

… … …

In his new transitory HQ Innokentij poured himself and his assistant a generous amount of Bourbon.

"You look pretty satisfied", his assistant dared to remark. "Thought you'd be madder after losing that woman and the HQ…" He swallowed drily, wondering if he had overstepped a line.

"Rumor has it the Basil found out who had wanted to kill him… looks like internal fighting will soon split his organization apart… new business opportunities for us…"

"But what about this man, Christopher Chance? You could've eliminated a source of further trouble."

Innokentij regarded his assistant for a moment long enough to make him break out into cold sweat.

"I'm sure you can answer the question yourself", he finally said.

This was a test. If his assistant would be able to come up with the correct answer, he had definitely gotten too clever to be allowed around any longer. Innokentij just couldn't take the risk.

"It's because of the boy, isn't it?", the assistant tentatively tried.

_Too bad_, Innokentij thought.

"A young man grows wings when he comes of age. Hurt him and he'll use them to lash out at you. Feed him right and he'll always come flying back to you", he explained, casually reaching for the poison in his signet ring.


End file.
